My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out.
James Joyce, Dubliners (via ontheedgeofdarkness)
The moon’s a dead rock, but I still like the word,
so black in its white space.
what can we say to the
moon except You again?
Franz Wright, from “Morning Moon,” in Kindertotenwald: Prose Poems (Alfred A. Knof, 2013)
Our separation of each other is an optical illusion of consciousness.
Albert Einstein (via psilocybinmushroom)