Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself”, Complete Poems
[Text ID: “(No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.)”]
There are many more languages than we think: and man betrays himself more often than he desires. How things speak! - but there are very few listeners, so that man can only, as it were, chatter on in the void when he pours out his confessions: he squanders his ‘truths’, as the sun does its light. - Isn’t it rather a pity that the void has no ears?
- P. Klossowski
(via soracities)
Moonlit beauty. Luis Ricardo Falero paintings inspo.
by omnifantasmic
(via forestlore)