psychorrhagy

Fluid Painting

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How not to panic when you’re made a ghost;
Sidle and slide, choose a smooth surd, and coast,
Meet solid bodies and glissade right through,
Or let a person circulate through you.

—Vladimir Nabokov

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I wasn’t actually in love, but I felt a sort of tender curiosity.

—F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

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Loneliness becomes an acid that eats away at you.

—Haruki Murakami, 1Q84

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It’s not a big thing, but I guess it’s true—big things are often just small things that are noticed.

—Markus Zusak, I am the Messenger

I will remember your small room, the feel of you, the light in the window, your records, your books, our morning coffee, our noons, our nights, our bodies spilled together, sleeping, the tiny flowing currents, immediate and forever. Your leg, my leg, your arm, my arm, your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.

—Charles Bukowski

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Duane Michals - I Remember the Argument, 1970

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I was always hungry for love. Just once, I wanted to know what it was like to get my fill of it — to be fed so much love I couldn’t take any more. Just once.

—Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

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But in the end one needs more courage to live than to kill himself.

—Albert Camus

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If two people love each other there can be no happy end to it.

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Ernest Hemingway

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and then there are some who
believe that old
relationships can be
revived and made new
again.

but please
if you feel that way

don’t phone
don’t write
don’t arrive.

—Charles Bukowski

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Impossible, I realize, to enter another’s solitude. If it is true that we can ever come to know another human being, even to a small degree, it is only to the extent that he is willing to make himself known. A man will say: I am cold. Or else he will say nothing, and we will see him shivering. Either way, we will know that he is cold. But what of the man who says nothing and does not shiver? Where all is intractable, here all is hermetic and evasive, one can do no more than observe. But whether one can make sense of what he observes is another matter entirely.

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Paul Auster, The Invention of Solitude