• Holly Golightly: You know those days when you get the mean reds?
  • Paul Varjak: The mean reds, you mean like the blues?
  • Holly Golightly: No. The blues are because you're getting fat and maybe it's been raining too long, you're just sad that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?
  • Paul Varjak: Sure.
  • Holly Golightly: Well, when I get it the only thing that does any good is to jump in a cab and go to Tiffany's. Calms me down right away. The quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there. If I could find a real-life place that'd make me feel like Tiffany's, then - then I'd buy some furniture and give the cat a name!
Sledding in Central Park. (at Central Park)

Sledding in Central Park. (at Central Park)

"The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams."

— Eleanor Roosevelt

"Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months."

Oscar Wilde (via theredpantsboy)

"When it comes down to it, I let them think what they want. If they care enough to bother with what I do, then I’m already better than them."

Marilyn Monroe

"No one wants to be “accepted”; to be “accepted” is to be tolerated. No, no one wants to be accepted; everyone wants to belong."

Before the snow

Still but for the distinctive and ever evolving Crack
Of leather soles on imprecise brick.
I pause to watch lights turn off room-by-room
All neighbors — all anonymous.

Start forward again with no set goal but the knowledge somehow —
It is not yet time to return
To the safe isolation of my forth floor walkup.
The streets offer a different isolation —
A semblance of purpose counterfeited by motion
And opportunity to observe.

Turn left into the warm domesticity of Louisburg Square
I spot the steady glow of Christmas lights
Pressed against a window by the perhaps overeagerly erected tree.
Advent begins tomorrow and yet the holiday traces spotted
Through windows and over doors
Seem alien and wrong; the year holds too much unfinished
Business to be ready for forced jollity.

Remember my hot chocolate but am too late;
The windless gelid air has thieved the lingering warmth.
Moments ago I burned my mouth in haste;
We push too soon or wait too long —
In both, we lose.

Catch a glimpse of the muraled sitting room so sparse
In furnishing and yet vibrant.
I imagine being young and home sick from school —
Fever dreams on the sofa of safaris to the jungle
Painted in two-dimensional majesty
On gently curving walls. Dreams are easy
Outdoors on the last day of November.

Realize that to be lonely is not to be alone.
There is no logical operator capable of reducing
One to the other; despite a plebeian tendency to make
No differentiation. Rather, loneliness is a no more straightforward
State of existence than is love, or happiness.

Perhaps the greatest loneliness
Is loneliness that is not shared.

"I will always love too much, care too deeply, and express myself more freely than is perhaps advisable. Getting hurt too often is a small price to pay for living each moment utterly, and without question, as myself."
Boston Public Garden

Boston Public Garden

A sleep akin to death

It is unfair that trees were granted the gift of sleep
akin to death,
their talent of taking such needed rest
to escape the
bitter misfortunes of Winter.

We poor humans, not granted this boon must
lie awake and moan with the wind and cry
with the jagged crystalline perfection
of window frost.

No escape but finality and such a waste
is not worth the sacrifice.

There is such a fine line between
purity and pain.
One false step and all is but lost.
An endless march on endless tundra.
A single candle flickers forever three paces
ahead and two to the left —
buried in Snow.

Only patience can bring back the sun.
How I envy the trees.

Midnight lacrimosa

3 A.M. finds me. It had little trouble for I do little

but sit and watch the shadows cast by the dying

low-wattage bulb.

3 A.M. and I cannot yet temper my hold on sentience — relax, accept oblivion.

Now is not the time to try for sleep.

I would wash dishes but do not trust the knives. There is little one can trust at 3 A.M.

 

Verdi in the wind, a soloist’s wail lofted by moaning choir.

You can hear them:

the tears.

There is no reason. No tragic tale nor darkened thought. No reason but it is 3 A.M. And I;

I am awake.

 

Flavors of loneliness. Some are more, complex —

one must learn to mark the difference,

as 3 A.M. tears do not fall for loneliness, but rather

into loneliness. A loneliness attainable only when the late to bed are already lost and the

early to rise have yet to yawn.

Draw the shades, light the lights — create a world in which there are

No people.

 

The shadows now cowering in closets and corners I run water until hot and with

too much soap I begin

the mindless act of cleaning.

Scrubbing soothes and running water fills the air.

White noise — a blanket to smother racing tired thoughts. The knives have lost

their power. Or have they?

One cannot fear when one cannot feel.

 

But there, right there, now in plain sight. Yes. For what greater fear

then fear of

Not feeling.

Oblivion.

 

In death we do not feel. There is but nothingness. And so by reason,

Life

Must be the presence of feeling. And so with loss of feeling comes

Death.

One cannot argue with such clarity of thought. For at 3 A.M. the symmetry of circles

Wins.

 

Feel dammit! Feel!

Whether pain or joy or love or hate. Just FEEL!

The hot water burns. The knife slips and striking the sink, hurts the ears.

 

[…]

 

Last dish suddenly clean. The knives safely sheathed and stored away.

A calmness sets in. No longer a lack, but a presence. For with a tired joy I realize —

I am alive.

My future beach house.

My future beach house.