Search This Blog

Passing passages

My wish.

Get link
Facebook
X
Pinterest
Email
Other Apps

By Quantum Mechanical Poet - August 03, 2012

My wish is that you may be loved to the point of madness.

~ André Breton

Get link
Facebook
X
Pinterest
Email
Other Apps

Comments

Edith Piaf interview (La vie en rose)

By Quantum Mechanical Poet - April 30, 2012

American Journalist: Hello, they said you were on the beach. Thank you for granting this interview. Edith Piaf: My pleasure. American Journalist: It’s odd to see you so far from Paris. Edith Piaf: I’m never far from Paris. American Journalist: I’ve a list of questions. Answer whatever comes to mind. Well…what’s you favorite color? Edith Piaf: Blue American Journalist: What’s your favorite dish? Edith Piaf: Pot Roast. American Journalist: Would you agree to live a sensible life? Edith Piaf: It is already the case American Journalist: Who are your most faithful friends? Edith Piaf: My true friends are my most faithful. American Journalist: If you could no longer sing…? Edith Piaf: …I could no longer live. American Journalist: Are you afraid of death? Edith Piaf: Less than solitude. American Journalist: Do you pray? Edith Piaf: Yes, because I believe in love. American Journalist: What is your fondest career memory? Edith Piaf: Eve...

Right words

By Quantum Mechanical Poet - March 03, 2014

I told myself: "There must be people whose job it is to use the right words, put things in a way... who when their heart beats, can get other people's hearts to beat." "That day I decided to become a poet." ~ Le tigre et la neige (Film)

A dream

By Quantum Mechanical Poet - March 29, 2013

Suddenly he was standing on short springy turf, on a summer evening when the slanting rays of the sun gilded the ground. The landscape that he was looking at recurred so often in his dreams that he was never fully certain whether or not he had seen it in the real world. In his waking thoughts he called it the Golden Country. It was an old, rabbit-bitten pasture, with a foot-track wandering across it and a molehill here and there. In the ragged hedge on the opposite side of the field the boughs of the elm trees were swaying very faintly in the breeze, their leaves just stirring in dense masses like women's hair. Somewhere near at hand, though out of sight, there was a clear, slow-moving stream where dace were swimming in the pools under the willow trees. ~1984 (George Orwell)