She was, in fact, a child of the moon.
Wandering around aimlessly, in the dark. Bringing light, to everyone around her.
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We are writers, my love.
We don't cry.
We bleed on paper.
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I write to give myself strength. I write to be the characters that I am not. I write to explore all the things I'm afraid of.
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"Her soul belongs to words and books.
Every time she reads, she is home."
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she found heaven
in a bookstore
she got lost in the pages
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She read books as one would breathe air, to fill up and live.
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I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is enough?
- Vincent Van Gogh
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She is a muse of words, an aura of roses and a sprinkle of stardust.
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Some nights I just look up at the stars and find peace from them; I always wonder who is looking at the moon when I am.
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Memories whisper secrets in the wind, echoes of moments left behind. Like autumn leaves, they rustle and fade, yet in our hearts, their essence remains. For in the depths of our souls, memories dwell, a bittersweet reminder of love that once was, and forever will be.
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Me, the artist.
You, my MUSE.
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In the first week of April the weather turned suddenly unseasonably, insistently lovely. The sky was blue, the air warm and windless, and the sun beamed on the muddy ground with all the sweet impatience of June.
- Donna Tartt, The Secret History (1992).
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She loves moonlight, and rainstorms and so many other things that have soul.
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"Don't bury yourself in poems, drying ink is not a coffin lid closing, you are here. You are here.
Take a deep breath and stop planning the funeral that isn't meant to happen yet."
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"before you die, experience the love of a writer, poet or painter.
if you're lucky enough to be an artist's muse, they will immortalise you.”
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I might be the writer but you will always be the words.
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Poets are not born in a country. Poets are born in childhood.
- Ilya Kaminsky, from "A Soul's Noise," Western Humanities Review (vol. 67, no. 2, Summer 2013)
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