Hold onto your voice. Hold onto your breath. Don't make a noise, don't leave the room until I come back from the dead for you. I will come back from the dead for you. This could be a city. This could be a graveyard. This could be the basket of a big balloon. Leave the lights on. Leave a trail of letters like those little knots of bread we used to dream about. We used to dream about them. We used to do a lot of things. Put your hand to the knob, your mouth to the hand, pick up the bread and devour it. I'm in the hallway again, I'm in the hallway. The radio's playing my favourite song. Leave the lights on. Keep talking. I'll keep walking toward the sound of your voice.
4661 notes"How much of my brain is willfully my own? How much is not a rubber stamp of what I have read and heard and lived?"
— Sylvia Plath (via mirroir)