But I Am Afraid; I Have A Nameless Fear Of That Transformation. I Have Not Yet Grown Accustomed To This

— March 9, 1912 / Franz Kafka diaries

Oh, what a happy fate, to sit in the silent room of an ancestral house among the quiet things in their abiding places, and to hear the tits sounding their first notes outside in the green and sun-shot garden, and away in the distance the village clock. To sit and gaze upon a warm strip of afternoon sunlight and to know a great deal about girls from the past and to be a poet. And to think that I too might have become such a poet if I had been able to live somewhere, anywhere on earth, in one of the many closed-up country houses that no one looks after. I would have required only one room (the sunny room under the gables). There I would have lived with my old things, my family portraits, my books. And I would have had an armchair and flowers and dogs and a stout stick for the stony paths. And nothing else. Nothing but a book bound in yellowish, ivory-coloured leather with old-style floral endpapers: in this I would have written.

from The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge by Rainer Maria Rilke

did you let me die in your arms in the timeloop

concept!!! "there's only one bed" fic but set in here

him trying to fix the dress' strap me [saw it and got so hard i got nauseous] ,,,,, I think I hauve scurvy

Is it possible to develop a voice in writing with such coherence and quiet authority that I can do away with narrative structure? (Plot?) In the dream story, all that’s holding it together now is the voice, and maybe the imagery—holding it together against its own tendency to fragment, to fly apart. The pieces want to return to some other order—not with each other—but I compel them quite quietly to hold together my way.

from One Day I'll Remember This Diaries 1987–1995 by Helen Garner

it's so fucked up that francis spent months thinking about wrapping his hands around james's neck in anger and instead their relationship ends with him gently caressing his throat

une passion pour jeanne d’arc, stella tennant by paolo roversi for vogue paris february 1994

fitzjames petting neptune. if you even care.