And Yeats.
Random piece of information, but it was a few years ago that I found Yeats was really Yates. Not Yeets. Nothing close to Mr 'Keets'.
Anyway. Not important. The point being - I read both Neruda and Yeats on the same night. Or a little before dawn, really.
I have Facebook and Gmail open on the same browser. What am I looking for?
Tonight. I was looking for tonight. A night. Any night.
The only highlight was watching Dumbledore die. And even that was depressing.
The word would be.. Anyway. Again.
Love is such a beautiful thing to read about. Or write about. Or imagine. As long as you don't have to deal with it, it's beautiful. Cause once you do, it just doesn't feel worth it.
I really wanted to write poetry. Cause this space is NOT a journal. But for tonight, which is really just another night, reading Neruda and Yeats and gasping at their ability to bring out the best in words will be it.
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