for women who are tied to the moon, love alone is not enough. we insist each day wrap it’s knuckles through our heart strings and pull. the lows. the joy. the poetry. we dance at the edge of a cliff, you have fallen off, so it goes. you will climb up again. you rare girl, once again you have a body that belongs to no lover, to no father, belongs to no one but you. wear your sorrow like the lines of your palm. like a shawl to keep you warm at night. don’t mourn the love that is lost to you now. it is a book of poems whose meters worked their way into your pulse. even if it has slipped from your hands it will stay in your body.
— anais nin to clementine von radics
Travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent, in the ideas of living.
— Miriam Beard
this will be the venue (lolz)