Author of quotes: Paula Hen

I found my happiness on the other side of despair, but then I lost it, crossing the line.

I do not believe in love, coincidence, tenderness, but when I hear you, I find eternity. ⠀

Art is a woman rushing to work at seven, but continuing to move smoothly, drawing with every step understandable only to herself the letters of dead languages. All semitones of grace, passion and femininity in an even step. Tasty swaying hips, thin ankles and carefully drawn wrists, begging for kisses-bites provocatively protruding bones.

Try to undress me without touching the body, but tearing off all the silks and heavy jewelry from the soul. Start with a light train of subtle lies, sliding your fingers along the fragile vertebrae of despair, exposing the shoulders and the line of sharp honey collarbones, smelling of bitter wormwood. Reach for the garters of a rebellious temper to kiss sweet peace from every inch of skin. Watch how the light fabrics of beloved freedom, arrogance and selfishness fall at your feet. Undress me, greedily biting into the most secluded corners of consciousness, and then skillfully touch the soul. Hands on thin bends, taking in indestructible captivity. Dress me in tenderness, and leave the cold to the icebergs.

Wait for autumn, as the most beautiful and passionate man who comes once a year and showers you with kisses - that's why the leaves fall from the branches, exposing their essence. We have been endlessly taught that the matter is in the laws of the earth, in photosynthesis, gravity and lunar phases, but all living things are ruled by passion: the moon falls in love with the sun, ready for it to sweep the oceans off the face of the earth, create crushing storms and destroy all life in the name of great love. Passion incinerates, casts off fetters, erases boundaries, false masks - it is the beginning. ㅤㅤ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

Your touch cut with French crystal.

I'm married to cold indefinitely, and you're my secret lover.

The four horsemen of the apocalypse meet between our lips, the disintegration of the world into atoms, when fingers slide over heated skin, reaching the garters of stockings, along which a gap spreads like a distorting snake, because thin threads, iridescent in the light of candle flame with a cold radiance, are not able to withstand skillful and powerful touches, like veins ringing with monstrous adrenaline when you find yourself in me. The sweetness of linden honey and the bitterness of wormwood juice, the constellations of blue on the skin - you taste me as if I were the doom of cyanide and sweet death, poisoning the body with spores of an unprecedented disease.

Man is beautiful in his insensibility. Honeysuckle rots from too warm touches of the sun, but the cold is immortal. and only eternal frosts in the heart can keep you alive.

I was your art, the most pure and original, I was the seven sins and seals, opening which, it was possible to release all the demons of hell.

Love me like bullets love the body of a fugitive.

You lie on your side, with your back to me. Nude. Your dark hair, tangled and pinched by your own body, scattered over the pillows, tickling my chin. They smell like a June evening, dreams and comfort. It's been three months and you still haven't changed your shampoo. You loved to add essential oils to the bath, the water in it was constantly hot, forcing the skin to take on a bright red hue, as if it lacked sensitivity. Psychologists say it's from loneliness. But were you lonely here without me?

Here people are boundlessly kind and sunny - without them everything would be different. For the first time, waking up in that apartment, which would have seemed too stuffy and cramped to you, from someone else's noise under the window, the sonorous voice of a girl from the first floor or children's laughter, I did not experience the usual irritation.

- Then you can imagine that my day was not only bitter, but also deadly - trivial and too unreasonably dreamy, but I liked the way I sounded that evening.