Goose feathers frequent the fastidiousness of my disease. Ideology circles the drain of my thoughts, pragmatism clogs my desires. A night can seem to be an eternity when your eyes arrogantly refuse to close. When the sun is up and there are pages to be consumed, the moon arises again within seconds. When will time learn to behave, to follow the ticking of my watch with seriousness. Time laughs at me until I’m but a broken clog, caught in the mechanical dismal display of my life.
“She wasted all her school time wanting to be the age she is now, and she’ll waste all the rest of her life trying to stay that age. Her whole idea is to race on to the silliest time of one’s life as quick as she can and then stop there as long as she can.”—C. S. Lewis, The Last Battle
“All too violently my heart still flows toward you — my heart, upon which my summer burns, short, hot, melancholy, overblissful; how my summer heart craves your coolness.”—Friedrich Nietzsche, Ecce Homo (via astromoon)