art is the opposite of death

this isn't happiness.: F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Notebooks →

  • Days of this February were white and magical, the nights were starry and crystalline. The town lay under a cold glory.
  • Dyed Siberian horse.
  • As thin as a repeated dream.
  • The sea was coming up in little intimidating rushes.
  • The island floated, a boat becalmed, upon the almost perceptible…

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