My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.
Pulteney Bridge, Bath, England
photo via debra
Dog with a view.
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Władysław Ślewiński (1856-1918)
I slid a page into the typewriter and without pausing, I proceeded to squeeze out everything I had inside me. I quarreled with every word, every phrase and expression, every image and letter as if they were the last I was ever going to write. I wrote and rewrote every line as if my life depended on it, and then rewrote it again.
The practice of art isn’t to make a living. It’s to make your soul grow.
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