There would still remain the never-resting mind,
So that one would want to escape, come back
To what had been so long composed.
The imperfect is our paradise.
Note that, in this bitterness, delight,
Since the imperfect is so hot in us,
Lies in flawed words and stubborn sounds.
--Wallace Stevens, Poems of Our Climate
”I guess it’s basically a fuck to you feeling judged for something. Just refusing to feel judged and not caring about the outcome.
Florence Welch, on Lover to Lover (via painted-fire)