#miller

Miller didn't write Death of a Salesman. He released it. It was there inside him, waiting to be turned loose. That's the measure of its merit. ↗

— Elia Kazan

#him #inside #loose #measure #merit

I found that what I had desired all my life was not to live - if what others are doing is called living - but to express myself. ↗

— Henry Miller

#tropic-of-capricorn #life

I began to turn my body, but he held me and laid me back onto the bed, insistently, kissing my breasts but not lingering, kissing a line down my stomach and lower. “You want me to prove to you that I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life, Roses. Is that true, aye? Because I just can’t take this anymore.” I gasped as he licked into my sensitive flesh, wetting me with his soft strokes, speaking soft words against my skin. “If you insist on doubting me, Roses, if you absolutely insist on breaking down every defense that I have with your tears and your plush, wet, ripe beauty, then that’s what I’ll have to do, lass. Is that what you want from me? Proof?” I could only sigh a soft response, already falling, burning, wanting too much. ↗

— Juliette Miller

#juliette-miller #roses #wilkie #beauty

More than every once in awhile, More than most dreams, More than just my heart, More than anything, More than you know, And more than I can say, I’ve loved you more Every passing day ↗

— Laura Miller

#laura-miller #love #will #dreams