October 2011
“The reason death sticks so closely to life isn’t biological necessity — it’s envy. Life is so beautiful that death has fallen in love with it, a jealous, possessive love that grabs at what it can.”
—Yann Martel (via thechocolatebrigade)
“Your handwriting. The way you walk. Which china pattern you choose. It’s all giving you away. Everything you do shows your hand. Everything is a self-portrait. Everything is a diary.”
—Diary -Chuck Palahniuk (via musingsinfemininity)
“I thought I was your destination. Looks like I was just another stop on the line.”
—Strange Little Girls, Neil Gaiman (via polajorge)
“There is immeasurably more left inside than what comes out in words.”
—Fyodor Dostoesky (via musingsinfemininity)
“Make me into anything, but just love me.”
—Chuck Palahniuk (via misswallflower)
“You never learn how to write a novel,” he told me. “You only learn to write the novel you’re on.”
—American Gods: The Tenth Anniversary Edition, Neil Gaiman (via neilgaiman)
waldosia
n. [Brit. wallesia] a condition characterized by scanning faces in a crowd looking for a specific person who would have no reason to be there, which is your brain’s way of checking to see whether they’re still in your life, subconsciously patting its emotional pockets before it leaves for the day.
“My heart is so tired.”
—Markus Zusak (via misswallflower)
“Go out and do stuff. Read a new book, get a manicure, have something to eat with your friends. Live a little; it’s healthy.”
—Shelly Hickman (via musingsinfemininity)
Ready To Start
Arcade Fire
Ready To Start- Arcade Fire
If I was scared, I would
And if I was pure, you know I would
And if I was yours, but I’m not
“Can we only love
Something created by our own imagination?
Are we all in fact unloving and unloved?
Then one is alone, and if one is alone
Then lover and beloved are equally unloved
And the dreamer is no more real than his dreams” —T.S. Eliot (via musingsinfemininity)
Something created by our own imagination?
Are we all in fact unloving and unloved?
Then one is alone, and if one is alone
Then lover and beloved are equally unloved
And the dreamer is no more real than his dreams” —T.S. Eliot (via musingsinfemininity)
