La Belle Noiseuse (Jacques Rivette, 1991)

— EM Cioran (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

—Sylvia Plath, Letter to Aurelia Plath, 4th May 1962

Moodboard

haiku #19, tathev simonyan

— Marguerite Duras, "The Ravishing of Lol Stein," pub. c. 1964 (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

𝔠𝔦𝔱𝔶 𝔡𝔞𝔱𝔢

// Rainer Maria Rilke. Selected Letters, 1902-1922

Mahmoud Darwish, from The Butterfly's Burden; "Maybe, Because Winter Is Late,"

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.

-Anaïs Nin, 1939