Lameesh

“Last night — it's hard to explain to you — last night I dreamed that I was dreaming. Could it be like that after death? the dream of a dream of a dream of a dream.”
― Clarice Lispector, Água Viva

“Every rose opens into a layering of itself, a dense-packed grandeur that holds
until it spills. On days that are still I can trace, if I want, exactly where I’ve been
just by doubling back on myself and following the trail I’ve left.
But I prefer the windy days, the days that strip me back, blasted, tossed, who
knows where, imagine them, purple-red, silver-pink, natural confetti, thin,
fragile, easily crushed and blackened, fading already wherever the air’s taken
them across the city, the car parks, the streets, the ragged grass verges, dog-ear
and adrift on the surfaces of the puddles, flat to the gutter stones, mixing with
the litter, their shards of colour circling in the leaf-grimy corners of yards.”
― Ali Smith, Public Library and Other Stories

“And the air was full of Thoughts and Things to Say. But at times like these, only the Small Things are ever said. Big Things lurk unsaid inside.”
― Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things