tell me the story
about how the sun
loved the moon so much
he died every night
to let her breathe
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Rosevelt’s diary entry from the day his wife died. He never spoke of her death again.
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"I wish I wrote the way I thought
Obsessively
Incessantly
With maddening hunger
I’d write to the point of suffocation
I’d write myself into nervous breakdowns
Manuscripts spiralling out like tentacles into abysmal nothing
And I’d write about you
a lot more
than I should"Benedict Smith / “I Wish I Wrote The Way I Thought” (via babyheroin) -
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