oxford comma enthusiast
The earth laughs in flowers.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
If the only thing keeping a person decent is the expectation of divine reward then, brother, that person is a piece of shit.
Rust Cohle from True Detective
I’ve always envied people who sleep easily. Their brains must be cleaner, the floorboards of the skull well swept, all the little monsters closed up in a steamer trunk at the foot of the bed.
David Benioff
There may be more beautiful times, but this one is ours.
Jean-Paul Sartre
I learned that people can easily forget that others are human.
"Prisoner" from the Stanford Prison Experiment (1971)
If you really used your head and became aware that love is only culturally constructed and began to view your symptoms as purely mental; you’d recognize that being “in love” is only an idea.
Jeffrey Eugenides, “The Marriage Plot” 
How do you get so empty? Who takes it out of you?
Ray Bradbury Fahrenheit 451
i am mine.
before i am ever anyone else’s.
in, nayyirah waheed

the wind is a Lady with

bright slender eyes(who


moves)at sunset 
and who—touches—the 
hills without any reason

(i have spoken with this 
indubitable and green person “Are
You the wind?” “Yes” “why do you touch flowers
as if they were unalive,as

if They were ideas?” “because,sir
things which in my mind blossom will
stumble beneath a clumsiest disguise,appear
capable of fragility and indecision

—do not suppose these 
without any reason and otherwise
roses and mountains
different from the i am who wanders

imminently across the renewed world”
to me said the)wind being A lady in a green 
dress, who;touches:the fields
(at sunset)

ee cummings

In ethics class so many years ago
our teacher asked this question every fall:
If there were a fire in a museum,
which would you save,
a Rembrandt painting or an old woman who hadn’t many
years left anyhow? Restless on hard chairs
caring little for pictures or old age
we’d opt one year for life, the next for art
and always half-heartedly. Sometimes
the woman borrowed my grandmother’s face
leaving her usual kitchen to wander
some drafty, half-imagined museum.
One year, feeling clever, I replied
why not let the woman decide herself?
Linda, the teacher would report, eschews
the burdens of responsibility.
This fall in a real museum I stand
before a real Rembrandt, old woman,
or nearly so, myself. The colors
within this frame are darker than autumn,
darker even than winter — the browns of earth,
though earth’s most radiant elements burn
through the canvas. I know now that woman
and painting and season are almost one
and all beyond the saving of children.
Linda Pastan, “Ethics”
sleepy
theme