Feel oddly barren. My sickness is when words draw in their horns and the physical world refuses to be ordered, recreated, arranged and selected. I am a victim of it then, not a master.
Sylvia PlathThat is salvation. To give of love inside. To keep love of life, no matter what, and give to others. Generously.
Sylvia PlathBright beads of red are rising through the ink, Hearts-blood bubbles smearing out into the black stream
Sylvia Plath