“A village, even a small one, takes at least all night to burn, in the end it looks like an enormous flower, then there’s only a bud, and after that nothing.” — Louis-Ferdinand Céline Copy Share Image
Out of the night you burn, Manhattan, In a vesture of gold-- Spun of innumerable arcs, Flaring and multiplying-- Gold at the uttermost circles fading Into the tenderest hint of jade, Or fusing in tremulous twilight blues, Robing the far-flung… — Lola Ridge Copy Share Image
