“We're just two lost souls
Swimming in a fish bowl,
Year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found?
The same old fears.”

Wish You Were Here, Pink Floyd Recommended by James.

“What a thrill --
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of hinge

Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.”

Cut, Sylvia Plath Recommended by Kate.

“The blood jet is poetry,
There is no stopping it.”

Kindness, Sylvia Plath

“I do not want a plain box, I want a sarcophagus
With tigery stripes, and a face on it
Round as the moon, to stare up.
I want to be looking at them when they come
Picking among the dumb minerals, the roots.
I see them already-the pale, star-distance faces.
Now they are nothing, they are not even babies.
I imagine them without fathers or mothers, like the first gods.
They will wonder if I was important.”

Last Words, Sylvia Plath

“I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)”

Mad Girl's Love Song, Sylvia Plath

“A stiff breeze lifted the hair from my head. At my feet, the city doused its lights in sleep, its buildings blackened, as if for a funeral.

It was my last night.

I grasped the bundled I carried and pulled at a pale tail. A strapless elasticized slip which, in the course of wear, had lost its elasticity, slumped into my hand. I waved it, like a flag of truce, once, twice...The breeze caught it and I let go.

A white flake floated out into the night, and began its slow descent. I wondered on what street or rooftop it would come to rest.

I tugged at the bundle again.

The wind made an effort, but ailed, and a batlike shadow sank towards the roof garden of the penthouse opposite.

Piece by piece, I fed my wardrobe to the night wind, and flutteringly, like a loved one's ashes, the grey scraps were ferried off, to settle here, there, exactly where I would never know, in the dark heart of New York.”

The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath

“There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.”

The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath

“What I want back is what I was
Before the bed, before the knife,
Before the brooch-pin and the salve
Fixed me in this parenthesis;
Horses fluent in the wind,
A place, a time gone out of mind.”

The Eye Mote, Sylvia Plath

“I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free -
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing.”

Tulips, Sylvia Plath

“I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.”

Two Campers In Cloud Country, Sylvia Plath

“I desire the things which will destroy me in the end.”

Unabridged Journals, Sylvia Plath

“Remember how in that communion only, beholding beauty with the eye of the mind, he will be enabled to bring forth, not images of beauty, but realities (for he has hold not of an image but of a reality), and bringing forth and nourishing true virtue to become the friend of God and be immortal, if mortal man may.”

Symposium, Plato

“Sleep, what slices of death, how I loathe them.”

Edgar Allan Poe

“Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow--
You are not wrong who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.”

A Dream Within A Dream, Edgar Allan Poe

“They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.”

Eleonora, Edgar Allan Poe

“It is evident that we are hurrying onwards to some exciting knowledge--some never-to-be imported secret, whose attainment is destruction.”

MS. Found in a Bottle, Edgar Allan Poe

“But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!--it writhes!--with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And the angels sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.”

The Conqueror Worm, Edgar Allan Poe

“Words themselves - the very material of our discourse increasingly take on masks or disguises.”

Dennis Potter

“The apparition of these faces in the crowd
Petals on a wet, black bough.”

In the Station of the Metro, Ezra Pound

“Some reds are unnatural enemies,
they crawl out of open veins,
they creep and slide from gaping wounds
like medals of pride and pain.”

The Talkative Woman and the Two Star General, Dory Previn

“Good and evil are names for what people do, not for what they are.”

His Dark Materials: The Amber Spyglass, Philip Pullman

“Ecstasy is a glassful of tea and a piece of sugar in the mouth.”

Aleksandr Sergeyevich Pushkin

“We did trace our own about the city's grid, aimless, in fugue: a fugue of love or memory or some abstract sentiment which always comes after the fact and had nothing to do that afternoon with the quality of light or the pressure of five fingers on my arm which awoke my five senses and more...

Sad is a foolish word. Light is not sad: or should not be.”

V, Thomas Pynchon

“I want to
I want to be someone else or I'll explode
Floating upon this surface for the birds
The birds
The birds

You want me?
Fucking, well come and find me
I'll be waiting
With a gun and a pack of sandwiches

And nothing
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing

You want me?
Well, come on and break the door down
You want me?
Fucking come on and break the door down

I'm ready.”

Talk Show Host, Radiohead

“Where do we go from here?
The words are coming out all weird
Where are you now, when I need you.”

The Bends, Radiohead Recommended by holly.