The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this:

A human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him... a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death.

Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create -- so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating.


—Pearl S. Buck—

February 10, 2010

August 17, 2008, 1:02 AM

m-am dat cu ruj rosu, multe straturi, sa ascund sangele care imi curge din buze. si am facut dus rujata. cu usa deschisa la baie. am folosit acelasi gel de dus ca la munte, sucrat, bolnavicios, gurmand. nu cred ca ti-l aduci aminte.

o sa citesc the gargoyle si o sa ma culc. in seara asta ma culc rujata. si cu parul ud.

stau in pat, rezemata de perete. am doar un tricou si chiloteii cu floricele si dantela roz. mi i-ai dat jos pe furtuna. mi i-ai dat iar jos pe 1 martie anul trecut si mi-ai spus "chiloteii cu floricele, stiam". chiloteii mei preferati.

cocorosie incet. si ceasul batand. si ceai de menta.

...iubire
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