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The Writer's Room

DrearyNightWritings

-Ecrire c'est Vivre-

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The human race is filled with passion, therefore I cannot be subjected to write for the pretty, delightful audience, but the fervent whose fires burn within.

A writer is a PHOTOGRAPHER of impressions

  • And he repeats life evermore like a song not noticed by ears.

  • One cannot write intensely if the mind's dampened with toffee.

  • The madman's ridiculous notion to dip one's fingers in blood is remarkable, yet understood.

  • Man is but a comedy, performing a dance fit for the insane.

  • The dead walk amongst this ungracious world, glancing at the fools who inhabit it.

  • The fool will runneth his mouth while the wise man will look from the hill and laugh.

  • Writing is a bleeding art for only a madman would spend countless hours pouring his soul to the world to have it ignored by the masses, and only a madman would continue this ridiculous Melodia as if driven by some unseen demon.

  • Darker than the creatures that haunt one's dreams and more deadly than their reach are the minds of men upon sleep.

  • It is perfect, not diminished in any way. At times, it can be the reason. A line from a book, or a light that flickers, operating as a key. Undivided, untouched, peerless in every way.

  • Her hands were as gentle as a newborn's, not a mark on them. You can tell she's never worked a day in her life. I never cared much for women like. My hands might have been dried and cut, but I had knowledge, I had skill, and that was something the world lacked.

  • His hair was like the setting sun, wild and free, like his spirit. From a distance, I named him Garo, The Spirit of the Sun. He ran the hills untamed, and though he did not know it, he was my happiness. 

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