Yesterday I was happy, I had wings, everything seemed wonderfully satisfying. This evening I'm a bit empty and dazed.

she looked like a huntress and turned over in his mind which it should be—some pale virgin with a slip of the moon in her hair,

Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.

We—are we not formed, as notes of music are, for one another, though dissimilar; such difference without discord, as can make those sweetest sounds, in which all spirits shake as trembling leaves in a continuous air?

Sylvia Plath, The Letters of Sylvia Plath Volume II: 1956–1963 ⁠—  Aurelia Schober Plath, 29th November 1956

Vladimir Nabokov, letter to his wife Véra (1926), Letters to Véra (ed. Brian Boyd & trans. Olga Voronin)

– Mary Oliver, “I Go Down to the Shore”

[text ID: I go down to the shore in the morning / and depending on the hour the waves / are rolling in or moving out, / and I say, oh, I am miserable, / what shall— / what should I do? And the sea says / in its lovely voice: / Excuse me, I have work to do. end ID]

I am afraid of winter, the rain, short, dark days. It has not come yet. Today was soft and sunny, but at 7:30 a mist came over the city with the darkness, and I imagined that winter was watching, waiting, crouching not far away.

When the stories burnt into her and hurt her, she turned away and into the dream again, as she had done in childhood. There was another world visible to practiced eyes, easy to enter and inhabit, another chamber to which only the initiate could follow.