“I owe much to my friends; but, all things considered, it strikes me that I owe even more to my enemies. The real person springs to life under a sting, even better than under a caress. The latter relaxes you, as Blake has said; the former braces you. In short, whenever I came to doubt myself, ready to read in praise rather a sign of others’ affection than a certificate of value, the relentlessness of others in harming me and defacing my thought soon forced me to conclude in favor of its importance. I did not originally know I was so dangerous; but I am opposed, therefore I am.”—André Gide, Pretexts: Reflections on Literature and Morality (via whyallcaps)
Your tongue parts my lips And forces the taste of wine from your trip to Spain. The taste of running with the bulls, Hunger for flesh; Drunken need Gives way to wandering hands and heat Between your fingers, In your eyes, In my chest, My hips.
What happens when the night ends, Sun rises on the opposite side Of the rock we lie on What fades in the flickering candlelight?