We got quiet. The garden was combing her hair and putting on earrings. The house was full of dancing creatures, not male not female but both, two lovers in one body. The books downstairs were reciting their poetry to each other, rubbing together, whispering through the leather covers. Wine was flowing through the water pipes. You had caught my leaping heart in your hand like a fish.

- Wasteland, Francesca Lia Block

11 months ago on June 06, 2012 at 03:06am

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Wasteland, Francesca Lia Block
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We got quiet. The garden was combing her hair and putting on earrings. The house was full of dancing creatures, not male...
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hello, hello ellephanta

Celine Song
i n t r o d u c t i o n & i ii iii iv v rec

I am a Manhattan-based playwright who writes letters to dead people.

"What, after all, is a clock? Without your grownup it is nothing. It is the grownup who winds it, who sets it back or ahead, who takes it to the watchmaker to be checked, cleaned, and when necessary repaired. Just as with the cuckoo that stops calling too soon, just as with upset saltcellars, spiders seen in the morning, black cats on the left, the oil portrait of Uncle that falls off the wall because the nail has come loose in the plaster, just as in a mirror, grownups see more in and behind a clock than any clock can justify."

Gunter Grass, The Tin Drum

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