Natures of your kind, with strong, delicate senses, the soul-oriented, dreamers,...– Hermann Hesse (via weissewiese)
We do not truly speak except at a distance. There is no word not severed.– Edmond Jabès, The Book of Margins, trans. Rosmarie Waldrop (via proustitute)
You deserve to be happy. What can I do?” Don’t send me away, I thought. He...– Laura Whitcomb (via ademptio)
It frustrates and fascinates me that we’ll never know for sure, that despite the...– Isaac Marion (via vouth)
The brain may take advice, but not the heart, and love, having no geography,...– Truman Capote (via venebelle)
Anonymous asked: Did you used to be ungathering?
Maybe it was because you were a December baby that you were allowed to keep the brightness of your eyes longer than most, why no matter how old you grew your face could become a child’s, your eyes widening, your lips forming an effortless moue. Your laugh was as clear as a siren’s. You had December’s harshness and its festivity, and the planets hung above your curved spine. There...
We wrapped our dreams in words and patterned the words so that they would live...– Neil Gaiman, Fragile Things (via matrem)