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I've always wanted to write a book, however I have yet to muster up enough courage to do so. There's this story I've been working on for some time now. I have written a couple of conversations and paragraphs, mostly scrap, and they're all over my notebooks and random scratch papers. I seriously lack enough motivation to finish whatever it is that I've started, and anyway, I don't think they are interesting enough for people to read.

I can't quite point down the feeling that I get whenever I write. It makes me feel a lot of things--happy, sad, angry, tearful, nostalgic--waves of emotions rushing through me simultaneously. Most of the time, it feels like I'm not myself. Like there's something that overpowers me as I write down whatever it is that I want to say.



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I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.
- Pablo Neruda, Love Sonnet XI.




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"The last refuge of the insomniac is a sense of superiority to the sleeping world."
-Leonard Cohen



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The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history.
- Oscar Wilde

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