Odd how rare it is to meet people who say things that we ourselves could have said. Their attitude to life much our own.

Every life is a piece of music. Like music we are finite events, unique arrangements. Sometimes harmonious. Sometimes dissonant.

he will never forget his first sight of the sea- a grey rippling vastness, like the residue of a dream

likeafieldmouse:

Franz Liszt - Un Sospiro - Van Cliburn

(via jeffreylocke)

One day, tens of millions of years from now, someone will find me rusted into the mud of a world they have never seen, and when they crumble me between their fingers, it will be you they find.

At the heart of all great art is an essential melancholy.

My arms were always tight and craving to embrace: I wanted to embrace and hold the light, the wind, the sun, the night, the whole world. I wanted to caress, to heal, to rock, to lull, to surround, to encompass. And I strained and I held so much that they broke; they broke away from me. Everything eluded me then. I was condemned not to hold.

I was never really insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched

I read my books until
I nearly broke their spines, and in the cotton field,
I repeated whole sections I’d learned by heart,
spelling each word in my head to make a picture
I could see, as well as a weight I could feel
in my mouth. So now, even as I write this
and think of you at home, Goodbye

is the waving map of your palm, is
a stone on my tongue.