When I woke this morning in the dark, humid bedroom, hearing the rain beating down on all sides, it seemed to me I was cured. Cured of the shuddering heartbeat which has plagued these last two days so that I could hardly think, or read, for holding my hand to my heart. A wild bird pulsed there, caught in a cage of bone, about to burst through, shaking my whole body with each throb. I began to want to hit my heart, pierce it, if only to stop that ridiculous throb which seemed to wish to leap out of my chest and be gone to make its own way in the world. I lay, warm, my hand between my breasts, cherishing the surfacing from sleep and the peaceful steady unobtrusive beat of my rested heart. I rose, expecting at every moment to be shaken, and indeed I was not. I have been at rest since
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (Karen V. Kukil and Sylvia Plath)
2x02 | 4x13
São Sebastião - São Paulo
A director must be a policeman, a midwife, a psychoanalyst, a sycophant and a bastard.
— Billy Wilder
Tilda Swinton by Xevi Muntane
Ezra Koenig and Chris Baio at Austin City Limits. Photos by Tim Griffin.
Benedict Cumberbatch ♥