[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— Gustave Flaubert, from a letter to Louise Colet (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

[ravensire]

mist curls around my whitened knuckles and tugs. an urgency to return. rooibos bourbon vanilla and the cry of the soul

[mournfulroses]

Lydia Davis, from her book titled "The End of the Story," originally published in 1995

[septemberkisses]

the fact that i'm no longer the same age as the protagonists of novels and films i once connected to is so heartbreaking. there was a time when I looked forward to turning their age. i did. and i also outgrew them. i continue to age, but they don't; never will. the immortality of fiction is beautiful, but cruel.

[ravensire]

music writing music music music music writing books poetry music literature fiction music music books books books poetry books love

[ravensire]

“I don’t know how to stay silent when my heart is speaking”

Fyodor Dostoevsky (White Nights)

[ravensire]

carve my chest and call it art, wield its weapon, look me in the eye and tell me you aren’t threatened

[shakespearesdaughters]

[dark-romantics]

We write down made-up stories to tell the truths we wish we could say out loud.

[a-quiet-green-agreement]

Yes, yes, moons, lovers, roses—

– Tennessee Williams, from “The Malediction,” Collected Stories (New Directions, 1985)

[hwhwgwhnwnwbwbwg-deactivated202]

Haruki Marukami

[ravensire]

knot in my platforms, silver needle at the stitching of my throat

[thesefallenembers]

time passes so quickly these days, and it terrifies me. how long before it’s all gone? what if we don’t even notice it slip away?

—e.b. // the hands on my clock are spinning

[ravensire]

docs don’t hurt anymore, street guitarists make me smile, and aquariums make my heart swell

[ravensire]

“you are his (poseidon’s) son!”

“i am sally jackson’s son! she’s the one who cared enough to call herself my mother. she’s the one who got herself killed so that i could be safe here!”

YOU TELL ‘EM PERCY!!!

[wedarkacademia]

[petaltexturedskies]

The stars may behold my tears and the wind drink my sighs, but my thoughts are a sealed treasure which I confide to none.

Mary Shelley, in a journal entry dated September 17th, 1825 featured in “The Journals of Mary Shelley”