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, 5:07 AM

sunt cu degetele pe gat, imi place cum se simte....imi vine sa ma strang.

sa mor gandindu-ma ca ma strangi, ca ti-ai pierdut mintile de placere, termini in mine. tu te scurgi, ma umpli de tine, de tot ce mi-am dorit. si eu ma scurg de tot in alta lume...... si e bine iubire. in sfarsit e bine...mor. de tine. fara durere. doar placere inconstienta, in inconstienta. si e bine

asculta cocorosie cu mine....asculta iubire...e asa perfect
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