the archive of almosts.
— Vladimir Nabokov, Letter to his wife Véra
Joy Sullivan, from “At the Airport”, Instructions for Traveling West
Sometimes it feels like a lie to call myself a poet --
The world is a gorgeous, ethereal place --
All I've ever done is, do my best to use what little words I have to tell you what my eyes have happened to see, and, what my heart has happened to feel.
I'm just another of life's many plagiarists --
Stealing experiences for myself and pretending they're words born from my soul --
So what's the term, then, when the universe's machinations bring me across someone like you, and my heart is filled with so many words that I could write a thousand novels?
A poet?
A thief?
Or simply a woman with a mind, taken, filled to the brim by chance, with desire, need, and affection?
"Could you even describe the warmth of a glowing moon?" V. Rue, 2025.
2 April, 1937 Letters to Véra by Vladimir Nabokov
a cultivated sanctuary
Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, from a letter featured in The Life & Letters of Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky
poet of an ordinary heartbreak by Chris Abani
By Enchanted Journal