I am tired of knowing nothing and being reminded of it all the time.— F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is the Night
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I want to love, but my hair smells of war and running and running.— Warsan Shire
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Not even the human— Allen Ginsberg, in a letter to Jack Kerouac
imagination satisfies
the endless emptiness
of the soul.
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My soul is impatient with itself, as with a bothersome child; its restlessness keeps growing and is forever the same. Everything interests me, but nothing holds me.— Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet