scarlet spontaneity

i’m sorry, i don’t want to inflict you all. inflict. another bitter bitter word. someone kill that word please.
l’absence est à l’amour ce qu’est au feu le vent; il éteint le petit, il allume le grand.
if that was in english it would be screamingly sentimental.
in fact it is anyway. i would delete it, but i spent too long putting the accents in.
a smattering of everything and a knowledge of nothing. i’ve been reading my dictionary of quotations, as you can see.

he has gone to fish, for his aunt jobiska’s
runcible cat with crimson whiskers.

i would like some crimson whiskers please.

the grave’s a fine and private place,
but none i think do there embrace.
i love that poem. it’s kinda filthy though. especially the part about the “vegetable love growing and growing”.

i need some sleep.