All of writing is a huge lake. There are great rivers that feed the lake, like Tolstoy or Dostoyevsky. And then there are mere trickles, like Jean Rhys. All that matters is feeding the lake. I don't matter. The lake matters. You must keep feeding the lake.
shadows of love, inebriations of love, foretastes of love, trickles of love, but never yet the one true love.
Hope never trickles down. It always springs up.
In L. A. , everyone is in their car all the time, so you're used to not interacting with people for the majority of the day, and it kind of trickles into nightlife and all that. People stay within their circles and there's no real mingling to be had.
We turn our backs on nature; we are ashamed of beauty. Our wretched tragedies have a smell of the office clinging to them, and the blood that trickles from them is the color of printer's ink.