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 20, 2008, 11:00 AM

c'est matin, c'est matin, je suis un petit lapin! c'est matin, c'est matin!

m-am culcat cam ingandurata, ai simtit bine, si aveam un botic intins prin tot patul. asa maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaareeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee era.

abia m-am tezit si am fatuca plina de cute de la cum am dormit. imi beau lapticul. de cand sunt aici beau un litru de laptic pe zi.

acu ma duc sa fac o baita cu ceiuc verde :)

te puuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup


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