Anais Nin

what a peculiar brand of madness;

your electric lips –

unspoken,

like a poem, perversed,

these exquisite, feral dreams

"Perhaps every single fair is no more than a dissociated fragment of one single, great, original fair which was inexplicably scattered long ago in a diaspora of the amazing."

Angela Carter, Fireworks

Last night the sky lit up; violent longing of the lonely gods.

"But I swear the nights the nights are too much

Nights when poems are made and unmade

Nights when she is too tempted

to leave the substance for the shadow"

Andre Breton, My Heart Through Which Her Heart Has Passed