High Romance

An endless talk of love,
no real passion.
And under these sad lights,
fever runs high tonight.

Turn around bright eyes.

Sara

"Sara, you're the poet in my heart, never change, never stop"

— Stevie Nicks

Little Sara

I drew this last year sometime between March and April. All I wanted to do was draw a beautiful pair of eyes. It took me days. Everything else was completed in under ten minutes. I'd like to call this an 'unfinished-finished' sketch. 

"Between thought and expression lies a lifetime"

— The Velvet Underground, Some Kinda Love

...

We are never going to win this.
But, if you ever see me
passing by, hold me,
closely. 

Soft Murmurs, Sunday Morning

"I think about your thighs,” she wrote in the second letter, “and the warm, moist smell of your skin in the morning, and the tiny eyelash in each corner of your eye that I always notice when you first roll over to look at me. I don’t know why you are better and more beautiful than anybody else. I don’t know why your body is something I can’t stop thinking about, why those little flaws and ridges on your back are lovely to me or why the pale soft bottoms of your New Jersey feet that always wore shoes are more poignant than any other feet, but they are. I thought I would have more time to chart your body, to map its poles, its contours and terrains, its inner regions, both temperate and torrid - a whole topography of skin and muscle and bone. I didn’t tell you, but I imagined a lifetime as your cartographer, years of exploration and discovery that would keep changing the look of my map. It would always need to be redrawn and reconfigured to keep up with you. I’m sure I’ve missed things, Bill, or forgotten them, because half the time I’ve been wandering around your body blind drunk with happiness. There are still places I haven’t seen."

— Siri Hustvedt, What I Loved 

The Promises Of A Face

"Let old Plato look on you with an austere eye; 
You earn pardon by the excess of your kisses
And the inexhaustible refinements of your love,
Queen of the sweet empire, pleasant and noble land.
Let old Plato look on you with an austere eye."
—  Charles Baudelaire, Fleurs du mal

On Dewfucked Grass

After a long night of revelry, music and existential conversations.

Morning Has Broken. Awake My Fair Child.

Sad Lonely Shadows

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens; only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands.

— E.E. Cummings

A Cold Dark Room

     I think I've seen my share of shit in this world
     The Utopia we all dreamed of sank a long time ago

     My plan now is to listen to my records, drink coffee
     And make empty plans for the future