viernes, 19 de septiembre de 2014

Next year I will not be the self of this year now. And that is why I laugh at the transient, the ephemeral; laugh while clutching, holding, tenderly, like a fool his toy, cracked glass, water through fingers.

July 1950 - July 1953 / The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath - Sylvia Plath.-

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