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je suis struggling
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"my child is fine" you sold her to one direction
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I wish I could write.
I wish I could write of love. 
Write of it like it was a cannibal enjoying my flesh right before my eyes.
Write of it like it was a gentle caress of the winds in Tuscany.
Write of it like it was slowly twisting a knife in my chest.
Write of it like I had actually felt it.
I wish I could write of heartbreak.
Write of it like it was the wind beneath my wings.
Write of it like it was the cold tea I sipped before bed.
Write if it like it was the chirps of a bird at 2:31 a.m.
Write of it like it was my Bible.
Write of it like I actually felt it.
I wish I could write of sorrow.
Write of it like it was my child.
Write of it like it was my mother.
Write of it like it was the blood in my veins.
Write of it like I had actually felt it.
I wish I could write of joy.
Write of it like it was the sunflower that stood taller than I.
Write of it like it was my husband who cheated on me.
Write of it like it was my bottle of drops that soothed my burning eyes.
Write of it like I had actually felt it.
I wish I could write.
But, I can’t.
- Harleen Kaur Grewal
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Been awhile since you’ve seen a Typewriter Series, let alone a sexy one, so why the f not slap this down on your plate for a little Saturday evening appeteaser? This is Typewriter Series #3074. There’s a hell of a lot more writing on my newsletter. Link in bio. . What if we’d lights on our limbs, and in the darkness made love in a photograph, what if we were a symphony of glow, a waltz of shine that looked like cursive from the hand of some gentle god? . Come to me, and let us sign our names in the emptiness. . -Tyler Knott Gregson- (at Helena, Montana) https://www.instagram.com/p/CKaE0khFs4Q/?igshid=1lpr5t4ccc6io
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We’re so distracted by how things end, we usually forget how beautiful the beginning was.
Lamiya Waheed  (via quotemadness)
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And if you're really like me, then before you leave tomorrow, or when you're just ready to shut the door of the taxi and have already said goodbye to everyone else and there's not a thing left in this life, then, just this once, turn to me, even in jest, or as an afterthought, which would have meant everything to me when we were together, and, as you did back then, look me in the face, hold my gaze, and call me by your name.
André Aciman, Call Me By Your Name
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How many very wantonly pleasant sports spring from the most decent and modest language of the words of love? Pleasure itself seeks to be heightened with pain; it is much sweeter when it smarts and has the skin rippled. The courtesan Flora said she never lay with Pompey but that she made him West the prints of her teeth.
Plutarch, Life Of Pompey
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Andre Dubus, “After Twenty Years”, Broken Vessels: Essays
[Text ID: “I have always known that writing fiction had little effect on the world; that if it did, young men would not have gone to war after The Iliad. Only the privileged - those with homes and food and the luxury of time in a home - are touched, moved, sometimes changed by literature. For the twenty million Americans who are hungry tonight, for the homeless freezing tonight, literature is as useless as a knowledge of astronomy. What do stars look like on a clear cold winter night, when your children are hungry, are daily losing their very health; or when, alone, you look up from a heat grate? Of course in cities at night you can’t even see the stars.”]
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Man, do I want to get back on stage again. I want to walk past those heavy doors of the auditorium, feel myself leave the cold biting winter at the door step and be engulfed by heat the familiar scent of drama and music and emotion and art. I’m dying to stand on that stage, barefoot, and feel every ridge and splinter as I titter across in the heat of a monologue. I want the script in my hand to hurt me harder than the rogue nails on the wood ever will. I want to scream and sing and dance and live. I want to breathe again.
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