“But the room was pure, it was cool, it was glass. We filled it with the thin, hard things we had collected-old Iggy Pop and Velvet Underground albums, narrow volumes of Emily Dickinson’s poetry, posters of Picasso’s blue, bony, ravaged, absinthe-poisoned saltimbanques, a wine bottle holding dried flowers. The room smelled of new paint and the sweet straw mat on the floor.”—Francesca Lia Block, Echo (via rainbowmummies)
At first we raced through space, like shadows and light; her rants, my raves; her dark hair, my blonde; black dresses, white. She’s a purple-black African-violet-dark butterfly and I a white moth. We were two wild ponies, Dawn and Midnight, the wind electrifying our manes and our hooves quaking the city; we were photo negatives of each other, together making the perfect image of a girl.