I love the ground under his feet, and the air over his head, and everything he touches and every word he says. I love all his looks, and all his actions and him entirely and all together.
— Emily Brontë (via bavarde)
(via atlantides)
Heart weeps.
Head tries to help heart.
Head tells heart how it is, again:
You will lose the ones you love. They will all go. But even the earth will go, someday.
Heart feels better, then.
But the words of head do not remain long in the ears of heart.
Heart is so new to this.
I want them back, says heart.
Head is all heart has.
Help, head. Help heart.
Head tries to help heart.
Head tells heart how it is, again:
You will lose the ones you love. They will all go. But even the earth will go, someday.
Heart feels better, then.
But the words of head do not remain long in the ears of heart.
Heart is so new to this.
I want them back, says heart.
Head is all heart has.
Help, head. Help heart.
— Lydia Davis, Varieties of Disturbance
And maybe we have to break everything to make something better out of ourselves.
— Chuck Palahniuk (via saddest-summer)
Write hard and clear about what hurts.
— Ernest Hemingway (via seabois)
(via poustouflant)
To think of him in the middle of the day lifts me out of ordinary living.
Now I am quietly waiting for the catastrophe of my personality to seem beautiful again, and interesting, and modern.
— Frank O’Hara, Meditations in an Emergency (via cartographe)
Food, fire, walks, dreams, cold, sleep, love, slowness, time, quiet, books, seasons – all these things, which are not really things, but moments of life – take on a different quality at night-time, where the moon reflects the light of the sun, and we have time to reflect what life is to us, knowing that it passes, and that every bit of it, in its change and its difference, is the here and now of what we have.
Life is too short to be all daylight. Night is not less; it’s more.
Life is too short to be all daylight. Night is not less; it’s more.
— Jeanette Winterson, Why I Adore the Night (via growing-orbits)
It’s enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment.
— Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude (via flentes)
I want a soul mate who can sit me down, shut me up, tell me ten things I don’t already know, and make me laugh. I don’t care what you look like, just turn me on. And if you can do that, I will follow you on bloody stumps through the snow. I will nibble your mukluks with my own teeth. I will do your windows. I will care about your feelings. Just have something in there.
— Henry Rollins (via isetthingsonfire)
I’ve always had a theory that some of us are born with nerve endings longer than our bodies.
— Joy Harjo (via dailystendhalnitesaudade)
At that moment I was sure. That I belonged in my skin. That my organs were mine and my eyes were mine and my ears, which could only hear the silence of this night and my faint breathing, were mine, and I loved them and what they could do.
— Dave Eggers, You Shall Know Our Velocity! (via pavorst)
He undreams himself, remembers she has left him.
— Michael Ondaatje, In the Skin of a Lion (via weissewiese)
(via weissewiese)
I won’t kiss you. It might get to be a habit and I can’t get rid of habits.
— F. Scott Fitzgerald, Flappers and Philosophers (via starsgoboom)
I love you more than my own skin.
— Frida Kahlo to Diego Rivera (via thechocolatebrigade)
next →
