prose

There are very few friends that will lie down with you on empty streets in the middle of the night, without a word. No questions, no asking why, just quietly lay there with you, observing the stars, until you're ready to get back up on your feet again and walk the last bit home, softly holding your hand as a quiet way of saying __'m here_.It was a beautiful night.

Don__ despair nowyou fell in love with the maskand not what was behindit touched the chords inside your heartand made it beatand now that you have seen behind itdon__ despair

..Breaking yet budding,dying yet living - standingamongst ruins and rage,reaching for possibilitiesplaying hard to get.

I only wrote prose before I met you. My musings were superfluous and serious as well. But now the words dance with me. I sing with them and we create poetry.

I get so god damn lonely and sad and filled with regrets some days. It overwhelms me as I__ sitting on the bus; watching the golden leaves from a window; a sudden burst of realisation in the middle of the night. I can__ help it and I can__ stop it. I__ alone as I__e always been and sometimes it hurts_. but I__ learning to breathe deep through it and keep walking. I__ learning to make things nice for myself. To comfort my own heart when I wake up sad. To find small bits of friendship in a crowd full of strangers. To find a small moment of joy in a blue sky, in a trip somewhere not so far away, a long walk an early morning in December, or a handwritten letter to an old friend simply saying __ thought of you. I hope you__e well.__o one will come and save you. No one will come riding on a white horse and take all your worries away. You have to save yourself, little by little, day by day. Build yourself a home. Take care of your body. Find something to work on. Something that makes you excited, something you want to learn. Get yourself some books and learn them by heart. Get to know the author, where he grew up, what books he read himself. Take yourself out for dinner. Dress up for no one but you and simply feel nice. it__ a lovely feeling, to feel pretty. You don__ need anyone to confirm it.I get so god damn lonely and sad and filled with regrets some days, but I__ learning to breathe deep through it and keep walking. I__ learning to make things nice for myself. Slowly building myself a home with things I like. Colors that calm me down, a plan to follow when things get dark, a few people I try to treat right. I don__ sometimes, but it__ my intent to do so. I__ learning.I__ learning to make things nice for myself. I__ learning to save myself.I__ trying, as I always will.

Within her simple, terrified mind, swift calculations of distance and speed were at work, and her face advertised the disappointing results.

Don__ look up to people, don__ be someone__ following.Now a days everything you see is just a lie,Instead be the person you want to follow.

Never fade into your life,Never stop imagining,Never give up on your dreams,You only fail, when you think you have failed.

Never stop dreaming,Never get satisfied,Make you goals bigger, every-time you reach them.Be more then you were, every day.

The difference between an achiever and a loser is,An achiever never gives up, never settles and lastly never forgets.

Collect memories, not things.Fill-up dreams, not pockets.Rise above your calling and be the person you always wanted to be.

Create a world for yourself in which you can rest,until then stay restless.

Every novel which is truly written contributes to the total of knowledge which is there at the disposal of the next writer who comes, but the next writer must pay, always, a certain nominal percentage in experience to be able to understand and assimilate what is available as his birthright and what he must, in turn, take his departure from. If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an ice-berg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water. A writer who omits things because he does not know them only makes hollow places in his writing. A writer who appreciates the seriousness of writing so little that he is anxious to make people see he is formally educated, cultured or well-bred is merely a popinjay. And this too remember; a serious writer is not to be confounded with a solemn writer. A serious writer may be a hawk or a buzzard or even a popinjay, but a solemn writer is always a bloody owl.

Eloquence is the poetry of prose.

However, if a poem can be reduced to a prose sentence, there can't be much to it.

Prose is architecture and the Baroque age is over.

Behind the perfection of a man's style, must lie the passion of a man's soul.

You never turn away family, no matter how f***ed up they are.