Tonight, I crave poetry. The music of words. The cloud of double meanings. The blanket of emotions.
At first, I turn to Dorothy Parker, who never fails to amuse me. Tonight, though, her wry observations and cynical tongue fall flat. I seek solace in Wislawa Szymborska, and find layers of pain. Pablo Neruda gives me love and lust, which are usually always welcome into the innermost corners of my soul, but right now I've no taste for his carnal apples.
And so, I'm left with the Sunlight On The Garden.