Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down and think which way To walk, and pass our long love’s day; Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood; And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow. An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear Time’s winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long preserv’d virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust. The grave’s a fine and private place, But none I think do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may; And now, like am’rous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour, Than languish in his slow-chapp’d power. Let us roll all our strength, and all Our sweetness, up into one ball; And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life. Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.
When something is too beautiful for me to handle. It can be a thought, music, a sunset, anything that invokes that special feeling that you’re experiencing a certain moment and realizing that you won’t ever be in that exact moment again. Sometimes when the ASMR starts, it seems like I can preserve that moment, or kind of remain in that moment for too long. It almost always ends with my eyes tearing up. Like it’s too much for my body to contain.
Failure songs, but the ASMR is always fleeting. Maybe kind of half-forced.
Ethan Hawke books - I know it sounds weird, but it’s the way it seems like he is probably sitting and writing a book, and experiences a complete and beautiful thought in unison with this fingers typing it; like it’s something he suddenly realized & had also known all along. I can’t hope to explain it. Art is sometimes wonderfully and painfully beyond words..
[Quotes that get me everytime:
—“the first time as a child that you realize even you are going to die. Or the last scene before a fantastic movie fades to black..”
—“doesn’t it seem absurd that when we’re little, everyone is always telling us how we can be anything we want, but now they just all act offended if we even try?”
..from Ethan Hawke’s ‘The Hottest State’]
Something strange. My ASMR was different when I was taking SSRI’s.
Sometimes it’s scary, especially if I have a high fever or I’ve been given an intravenous injection of opioid painkillers. In contrast, these two scenarios also cause the most pleasurable ASMR.
I wonder if this is in any way connected to DMT or some other chemical that a body releases upon death. It definitely borders on hallucinogenic sometimes.
On the white throat of the useless passion That scorched my soul with its burning breath, I clutched my fingers in murderous fashion, And gathered them close in a grip of death; For why should I fan, or feed with fuel, A love that showed me but blank despair? So my hold was firm, and my grasp was cruel — I meant to strangle it then and there!
I thought it was dead. But with no warning, It rose from its grave last night, and came And stood by my bed till the early morning, And over and over it spoke your name. Its throat was red where my hands had held it, It burned my brow with its scorching breath; And I said, the moment my eyes beheld it, A love like this can know no death.
For just one kiss that your lips have given In the lost and beautiful past to me I would gladly barter my hopes of Heaven And all the bliss of Eternity. For never a joy are the angels keeping To lay at my feet in Paradise, Like that of into your strong arms creeping, And looking into your love-lit eyes.
I know, in the way that sins are reckoned, This thought is a sin of the deepest dye; But I know, too, if an angel beckoned, Standing close by the Throne on High, And you adown by the gates infernal, Should open your loving arms and smile, I would turn my back on things supernal, To lie on your breast a little while.
To know for an hour you were mine completely — Mine in body and soul, my own — I would bear unending tortures sweetly, With not a murmur and not a moan. A lighter sin or a lesser error Might change through hope or fear divine; But there is no fear, and hell has no terror, To change or alter a love like mine.