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 7, 2010

March 18, 2008, 1:57 PM

si o sa beau vin... si o sa mi se scurga pe buze, pe barbie, pe gat si tu o sa lingi fiecare siroi, fiecare picatura... o sa te imbeti cu vinul, cu mine...

si o sa am rochita patata cu vin si cu picaturi de sange de pe buzele muscate si roase. si n-o sa-mi pese... o sa stau intinsa si tu o sa ma privesti, beat, imbatat. si-o sa ma f***. o noapte intreaga. si o dimineata, pana ma epuizezi, pana nu mai pot respira, cu rochita stransa sub mine, cu sperma curgandu-mi pe pulpe, pe genunchi. cu incheieturile mainilor vinete, ranite de stransoarea ta.
si eu o sa fiu hepi... si o sa ma f*** iar....

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