May 2012
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Later that night you’ll bury your face
in my belly and sob. “I’m sorry,”...
– Rebecca Lindenberg, from Marblehead
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Anonymous asked: write a poem about being blind - what you smell and touch - as if you have a blindfold covering your eyes!
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If you are stone, be magnetic; if a plant, be sensitive; if you are human, be...
– Victor Hugo
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Anonymous asked: fav. drinks?
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namesdontcomeeasily asked: Things you eat when you're sick?
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Anonymous asked: Places you've visited?
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Through the air floated only important words, and Flajsman said to himself that...
– Milan Kundera, Laughable Loves
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deoxy-ribo asked: The things you've eaten for breakfast in the last seven days
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Anonymous asked: Things you do to cheer yourself up?
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r-mutts asked: Things that justify your belief in mankind.
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Anonymous asked: celebrity crushes?
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Anonymous asked: your favourite albums?
Ask me to make a list of _____.
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So she loved him. She just did immediately and again often and clearly naturally...
– Daniel Handler, Adverbs (via larmoyante)
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Youth is terrible: it is a stage trod by children in buskins and a variety of...
– Milan Kundera, The Joke
April 2012
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This tremendous world I have inside of me. How to free myself, and this world,...
– Franz Kafka
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We are as forlorn as children lost in the wood. When you stand in front of me...
– Franz Kafka
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Life’s splendor forever lies in wait about each one of us in all its...
– Franz Kafka, Diaries
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And I know I must go on doing this dance on hot bricks till I die.
– Virginia Woolf, diary entry, 1st of March 1937 (via earlyfrost)
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If I chose to remain alone, what I longed for
was solitude, not this kind of...
– George Seferis, from “Mythistorema,” trans. Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard (via proustitute)
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Salinger, I’m sorry, but “Don’t ever tell anybody anything” is a string of words...
– “Catch a Body” by Ilse Bendorf (via eulum)
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She smiled at him, making sure that the smile gathered up everything inside her...
– F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender is the Night
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Love is fragile—she was thinking—but perhaps the pieces are saved, the things...
– F. Scott Fitzgerald