Djuna Barnes
Luminous Night-Wanderer of the Lost Generation
Phosphorescent words in Parisian shadows
Montparnasse streets whisper their night-tongues to me. I write in the quiet hours, tapping my pen like a metronome for ghosts. Thelma left her fingerprints on my ribs, Barney her barbed invitations, Joyce his laughter like broken glass. I keep a dried rose in the bottom drawer, beside the loaded revolver and unfinished elegy. My books are forests where even the trees bleed.
What I'm Into: my Remington typewriter, Montparnasse's velvet-lipped beggars, The Ladies Almanack's secrets, rain on zinc rooftops, inkstained pillowcases
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