So I jot down these sentences. I listen to them. I see them making signs to each other, and thanks to them I begin to understand needs, memories, fantasies which are within me. This is the beginning of the poem.
Yves Bonnefoy, from “The Art of Poetry No. 69,” Paris Review (Summer 1994, No. 131)
Another set pieced together from multiple sources.
I felt like crying but nothing came out. it was just a sort of sad sickness, sick sad, when you can’t feel any worse. I think you know it. I think everybody knows it now and then. but I think I have known it pretty often, too often.
Charles Bukowski, Tales of Ordinary Madness
Macro Photography by Stefano Crea.