She read and drifted. She was here and there.
The Body Artist, Don DeLillo
2 years ago
0 notes
Beneath the excitement of travel was a core of sadness, knowing this would become the memory of a place he’d seen for the last time.
Stories are for joining the past to the future. Stories are for those late hours in the night when you can’t remember how you got from where you were to where you are. Stories are for eternity, when memory is erased, when there is nothing to remember except the story.
The Things They Carried, Tim O’Brien (via happy-searching)

(Source: healingeternity)

2 years ago
8 notes

"Fuck You," Said the Author


What a twist: There was no twist.

2 years ago
33 notes
[I]f different languages influence our minds in different ways, this is not because of what our language allows us to think but rather because of what it habitually obliges us to think about.
Guy Deutscher, “Does Your Language Shape What You Think?” (via rethinkcapitalism)

(Source: reblogging4reference, via bunnieznbuns)

2 years ago
41 notes
Dance. As long as the music plays.: My heart is pounding, pacing impatiently in the vaults of my chest,...


My heart is pounding, pacing impatiently in the vaults of my chest, fervently wishing that she’d answer but dreading what would come next. I raise the phone to my ear, hoping that, with each heavy breath into the receiver, it would come to life with her voice. I wait for a million heartbeats and a…

(Source: theremiss)

2 years ago
36 notes
Porter's Notebook: Fireflies


La Placa del Sol held a scattering of students and smokers, laughing against the fading of the sun. When that curtain falls, the embers of their cigarettes will wink in the night like the fireflies I imagine you chasing as a child in the wilds of Pennsylvania’s august twilight.

That’s august like…

2 years ago
25 notes


They shared a postman but their news was always different. 

They had the same view but they did not share the same perspective.

They were neighbours but they were not quite neighbourly.

There was something between them.

Something thicker than cavity wall insulation.


2 years ago
0 notes
Perhaps it was because, in Paul’s world, the natural nearly always wore the guise of ugliness, that a certain element of artificiality seemed to him necessary in beauty.
Paul’s Case, Willa Cather. (via kendraleas)
2 years ago
3 notes

from Sputnik Sweetheart by Haruki Murakami


from Sputnik Sweetheart by Haruki Murakami

2 years ago
720 notes
She felt a vague glimmer of hope, one which filled her with impossible sadness.
Scott Bradfield  (via colourmegreenwich)

(Source: moonpunx)

2 years ago
6 notes

City livin’

He was full of the city so he left it behind. He found a quiet place down by the sea and he was empty for a while.

(Source: legiblethings)

2 years ago
1 note