All these books are published in Heaven.
All these books are published in Heaven.
I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.
My books piled up before me for my use waiting in space where I placed them, they haven't disappeared, time's left its remnants and qualities for me to use -- my words piled up, my texts, my manuscripts, my loves.
The beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
The closet door is open for me, where I left it, since I left it open, it has graciously stayed open.
Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O my soul, I loved you then!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river! Dreams! adorations! illumnations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!
We are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories