Might be something by Eno, might be music,
really waves drawing back along stones,
the wet revealing unpolished fragments
and razor clam shells exposed, slicing
Jagged foot paths –
curved, aimless, unEnglish-garden-style,
the fog covering the means and ways,
that cut and bruise, draw sacrificial blood with each step
Lost, alone in weird thoughts,
a mind criss-crossed with witchy ley lines,
webbed with flickering lights,
dragged out and formed by drunken spiders
This….
This fog
This beating heart,
uneven and unmeasured,
this pain within, the fog
The quiet feet dragging,
blooded footprints
The feet seeking water,
the mind seeking silence,
seeking fathoms
And a darkness to finally drown in
Writer Moe 
This is so, so beautiful.
Thank you
Beautiful? Maybe. If sadness can be beautiful.
The old Keats thing… Beauty is truth, truth beauty
Find me one person that feels true sadness and finds it beautiful and ill buy you a pint.
Keats isn’t getting a pint. Fucker.
Well, there are people who are into BDSM find pleasure in pain. But I know what you’re saying. I do agree about Keats. I would definitely buy Byron a pint.
Okay, we’ll go halves.
Byron gets a pint for sure.
I felt this. The feeling wasn’t a beautiful one but it was so incredibly bang on the money.
You see things.