- Patrick Pfeiffer on writing books (via unendingvoyage)
And I will dig my own grave, yeah I’m misbegotten I am the last one you save here It’s all gone rotten.
And she forgot the blue above the trees,
And she forgot the dells where waters run,
And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze;
She had no knowledge when the day was done,
And the new morn she saw not: but in peace
Hung over her sweet Basil evermore,
And moisten’d it with tears unto the core.
“Isabella; or, The Pot of Basil” by John Keats (via friedarose)
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