summoned by conscious recollection

washed up on the shore of a world—
or huddled against the gate of a garden—
to which they can’t admit, they can never be admitted.

Everything I am writing at present bores me and leaves me indifferent, but everything that is still only in my head interests me, moves me, and excites me.
Anton Chekhov (via fuckyeahrussianliterature)

rss | archive

theme by: woodcabin