What is a poet? An unhappy man who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music…. And people flock around the poet and say: ‘Sing again soon’ - that is, ‘May new sufferings torment your soul but your lips be fashioned as before, for the cry would only frighten us, but the music, that is blissful’.

Søren Kierkegaard. (via honey-nut-queerios)
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Oh No

Gogol Bordello
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Glaciers move in tides.
So do mountains.
So do all things.

John Muir, Letters from Alaska (via anintimatewoman)
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