When I miss Leonardo's literature and art

Sherman 2022-03-21 09:03:29

A man who writes poetry does everything he can to love a genius who writes poetry. Love is like the color of absinthe, hysterical and at a loss. The young man was at ease, slipping away from the man's fingers like sunshine. The young man actually loves men, but this poetic genius has phototropism in his bones, so wandering and pursuit is his life. I don't know if a man loves a boy's strong talent or a beautiful body, but as long as the boy finds the sun, two people can be home in the world. Sometimes inspiration is lost, and sometimes there is a big fight, destroying each other's body and mind. People who write poetry are insanely insane. For a teenager, freedom is a holy place, and no matter how much a man pleads, he can't stop the teenager from walking away with his slender legs. Unexpectedly, the parting this time will be a goodbye forever, until the man gets old, there is still a huge vacancy in his heart, that is the shining day with the young man.

The young Leonardo is really a crazy existence, with a pointed jaw, gray-blue transparent pupils, white porcelain doll-like skin, a pure and evil smile, and a flamboyant childishness. What he interprets is an unrestrained rebellious teenager, a young genius full of inspiration, his essence is like the sun, and the dazzling light stabs the uncle to the point of being completely skinless but cannot make people look away. His love is emotional, it can disappear at any time and it can be ignited at any time. That's why it is impossible to extricate oneself from encountering such a maverick and beautiful boy

PS: Leonardo is obviously a literary youth. It is a pity that it has become the appearance of being blessed now, and the greenness is no longer.

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Extended Reading

Total Eclipse quotes

  • [first lines]

    Paul Verlaine: Sometimes he speaks in a kind of tender dialect of the death which causes repentence, of the unhappy men who certainly exist, of painful tasks and heartrending departures. In the hovels where we got drunk he wept looking at those who surrounded us, the cattle of poverty. He lifted up drunks in the black streets. He had the pity a bad mother has for small children. He moved with the grace of a little girl at catechism. He pretended to know about everything, business, art, medicine. I followed him, I had to!

  • [last lines]

    Arthur Rimbaud: I've found it. What? Eternity. It's the sun mingled with the sea.