Neha

“...you made art because it was the only thing you’d ever been good at, the only thing, really, you thought about between shorter bursts of thinking about the things everyone thought about: sex and food and sleep and friends and money and fame. But somewhere inside you, whether you were making out with someone in a bar or having dinner with your friends, was always your canvas, its shapes and possibilities floating embryonically behind your pupils. There was a period—or at least you hoped there was—with every painting or project when the life of that painting became more real to you than your everyday life, when you sat wherever you were and thought only of returning to the studio, when you were barely conscious that you had tapped out a hill of salt onto the dinner table and in it were drawing your plots and patterns and plans, the white grains moving under your fingertip like silt.”
― Hanya Yanagihara, A Little Life

“If wrappings of cloth can impart respectability, the most respectable persons are the Egyptian mummies, all wrapped in layers and layers of gauze”
― Kamala Suraiyya Das, Wages of Love

“...waiting for any kind of structured feeling to emerge from the organisational fakery of my days.”
― Max Porter, Grief Is the Thing with Feathers

“Could anyone really travel so far that they might not find their way home again?”
― Mary E. Pearson, The Kiss of Deception