“The pussy longs to lap the cream, and I to lap the pretty girl,”
– taken from ‘Games of Venus: An Anthology of Greek and Roman Erotic Verse from Sappho to Ovid’
“The pussy longs to lap the cream, and I to lap the pretty girl,”
– taken from ‘Games of Venus: An Anthology of Greek and Roman Erotic Verse from Sappho to Ovid’
The awareness of how little of the world you’ll experience, or how small your home is.
A phenomenon in which you have an active social life but very few close friends-people who you can trust, who you can be yourself with.
The realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and thoughts.
The amniotic tranquility of being indoors during a thunderstorm, listening to waves of rain pattering against the roof or window.
Boredom with the same old issues that you’ve always had—the same flaws and anxieties you’ve had for years.
A kind of melancholic trance in which you become completely absorbed in vivid sensory details—raindrops skittering down a window, tall trees rustling in the wind, the blades on a fan.
The moment in which you realize that you’re currently happy—consciously trying to savor the feeling.
The aroma of old bookstores, filled with thousands of ancient books, each of which is itself locked in its own era, bound and dated.
A thought that only seems to strike you late at night—an overdue task, a nagging guilt that won’t go away.
The feeling that no matter what you do is always somehow wrong.
The unnoticed excellence that carries on around you every day, hidden talents that go on ignored.
An image that sticks in your brain, and you have no idea how it got there.
A conversation in which everyone is talking but nobody is listening, words are layered upon each other like papers.
Nostalgia for a time you’ve never known. Wishing to be living in another era.
The atmosphere of a place that’s usually bustling with people but is now abandoned and quiet—a school hallway in the evening, an unlit office on a weekend, vacant fairgrounds, the afterimage.
A hypothetical conversation that you compulsively play out in your head, a debate, a conversation, something where you can connect more deeply with people than in reality.
The desire to be struck by disaster – to survive a plane crash, or to lose everything in a fire
The tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it.
The unsettling awareness of your own heartbeat.
The inexplicable urge to push people away, even close friends who you really like
I love posts like this. So much.
Seduce me. Write letters to me. And poems, I love poems. Ravish me with your words. Seduce me.

Studies
“His pants fit like a glove”
Old punchline
