The Words

I love how she drinks Earl Grey with honey & milk, how she knows the most god awful lyrics by heart & how she gets deer-eyed sometimes. I love her hilarious story telling & her deeply feeling heart. I love her. For all the things she introduced me to. Such as her wondrous cooking,cute little tea rooms & fancy Italian restarants. For things like feeling the sunlight on your back as you fly over hills of snow & dancing as if you were always chained before. For her strong straight-faced boyfriend frown. Above all for who she is. Strong-willed & tempered like a child,& sweet like one. Always abundantly loud & clear about what she wants but comfortable in knowing that if she doesn't get it, she'll get something better in the end. How she deals with others & her surroundings. So capable of love & care. So damn fucking good in hedonism & life. I said it before, I'll say it again. I love her.

[365filmsbyauroranocte]

Le Corbeau (H.G. Clouzot, 1943)

[enjoythesilence771711]

[how-she-fell]

“The minute I heard my first love story, I started looking for you, not knowing how blind that was. Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere, they’re in each other all along.”

— Rumi

[trashfuckpopsuicide]

[070707070707070707070]

[nostalgiclollygagger]

Somber Reptiles

[harmonymelody]

I wanted to tell her that I was getting better, because that was supposed to be the narrative of illness: It was a hurdle you jumped over, or a battle you won. Illness is a story told in past tense.

Turtles All the Way Down, John Green

[vlf]

[leroisurfboards]

[abduction]

[i--n--d--i--g--o-deactivated202]

[journalofanobody]

Journey

[truthispartial]

Stanisław Szukalski

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

Sandra Cisneros, from My Wicked Wicked Ways: Poems; “Moon In Hydra,”

[shisasan]

July 1, 1914, The Diaries Of Franz Kafka, 1914-1923

[objetpetita]

“I no longer understood. Had I shouted, no one would have heard, not even had I shouted my head off. I had nothing to say. I was still doomed to go astray. I kept laughing. I would have liked to spit in the other people’s faces.”

— Georges Bataille, Blue of Noon

[danismm]

[89rooms]

“You are a church of broken glass and hallelujahs. You are haunted like every other holy thing. What tried to destroy you didn’t have the strength. Still you stand. Sturdy and smelling of smoke.”

— Little Bird, Clementine von Radics