mayo 22, 2014

I am not the first person you loved. You are not the first person I looked at with a mouthful of "forevers". We have both known loss like the sharp edges of a knife. We have both lived with lips more scar tissue than skin. Our love came unannounced in the middle of the night, our love came when we had given up on asking love to come. I think that has to be part of its miracle. This is how we heal. I will kiss you like forgiveness. You will hold me like I'm hope. Our arms willbandage and we will press promises between us like flowers in a book. I will write sonnets to the salt of sweat on your skin. I will write novels to the scar of your nose. I will write a dictionary of all the words I have used to trying to describe the way it feels to have finally, finally found you. And I will not be afraid of your scars. I know sometimes it's still hard to let me see you in all your cracked perfection... But please know: wether it's the days you burn more brilliant than the sun or the nights you collapse into my lap your body broken into a thousand questions, you are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I will love you when you are a still day, I will love you when you are a hurricane.

--Mouthful of forevers, Clementine von Radics.

mayo 15, 2014

London Underground.

 "You'll just have to make the best of it down here," he said to Richard, "in the sewers and the magic and the dark." And then he smiled, hugely, whitely: a gleaming grin, monumental in its insincerity. "Well-delightful to see you again. Best of luck. If you can survive for the next day or two," he confided, "you might even make it through a whole month." And with that he turned and strode off through the sewer, after Door and Hunter.
 Richard leaned against a wall and listened to their footsteps, echoing away, and to the rush of the water running past on its way to the pumpink stations of East London, and the sewage works. "Shit," he said. And then, to his surprise, for the first time since his father died, alone in the dark, Richard Mayhew began to cry.

Neverwhere, Neil Gaiman.