Tuesdays are for poetry. Why? Because every day is for poetry.
I had no time to hate, because
The grave would hinder me,
And life was not so ample!
Could finish enmity.
Nor had I time to love; but since
Some industry must be,
The little toil of love, I thought,
Was large enough for me.
—Emily Dickinson
“What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose-knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace anything, solemn, slight, or beautiful that comes into mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk, or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through.” —Virginia Woolf
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