“So, now I shall talk every night. To myself. To the moon. I shall walk, as I did tonight, jealous of my loneliness, in the blue-silver of the cold moon, shining brilliantly on the drifts of fresh-fallen snow, with the myriad sparkles. I talk to myself and look at the dark trees, blessedly neutral. So much easier than facing people, than having to look happy, invulnerable, clever.”—Sylvia Plath
n. [abbr. picayune] the smallest measurable unit of human connection, typically exchanged between passing strangers—a flirtatious glance, a sympathetic nod, a shared laugh about some odd coincidence—moments that are fleeting and random but still contain powerful emotional nutrients that can alleviate the symptoms of feeling alone.
“Everything around me is evaporating. My whole life, my memories, my imagination and its contents, my personality - it’s all evaporating. I continuously feel that I was someone else, that I felt something else, that I thought something else. What I’m attending here is a show with another set. And the show I’m attending is myself.”—Fernando Pessoa
“There are characters which are continually creating collisions and nodes for themselves in dramas in which nobody is prepared to act with them. Their susceptibilities will clash against objects that remain innocently quiet.”—George Eliot, Middlemarch.
“أراد مرايا جديدة
فلم يجد الصورة المقنعة
أراد ميادين واسعة
فتاهت بها الزوبعه
وحن إلى قيده
كي يفّر من الظلّ و القبّعة
دعيه يقل ما لديه
من الصمت و التجربة
لقد صدئت شمسه المتعبة
و نام على أسطوانة
و خبأ أقماره في خزانه”—محمود درويش