I knew it wasn’t too important, but it made me sad anyway. — J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye (via stevenbong)
And sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to describe them in. — Jane Austen, from Sense and Sensibility (via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)
Thursday Oct 10 · 1,857 notes
She likes to sleep. It makes her forget about it. — (via danger)
I am overwhelmed with things I ought to have written about and never found the proper words. — Virginia Woolf, Diaries Volume One 1915-1919 (via larmoyante)
She had always wanted words, she loved them; grew up on them. Words gave her clarity, brought reason, shape.

Michael Ondaatje (via kushandwizdom)

Good Vibes HERE

(via quotelounge)

Monday Sep 09 · 5,546 notes
gypsums:
Friday Sep 09 · 454 notes
Having a soft heart in a cruel world is courage, not weakness — Katherine Henson  (via thenocturnals)
I catch your eye. I, who had been thinking myself so vast, a temple, a church, a whole universe, confined and capable of being everywhere on the verge of things and here too, am now nothing but what you see. — Virginia Woolf (via lovequotesrus)
Sometimes you’re 23 and standing in the kitchen of your house making breakfast and brewing coffee and listening to music that for some reason is really getting to your heart. You’re just standing there thinking about going to work and picking up your dry cleaning. And also more exciting things like books you’re reading and trips you plan on taking and relationships that are springing into existence. Or fading from your memory, which is far less exciting. And suddenly you just don’t feel at home in your skin or in your house and you just want home but “Mom’s” probably wouldn’t feel like home anymore either. There used to be the comfort of a number in your phone and ears that listened everyday and arms that were never for anyone else, but just to calm you down when you started feeling trapped in a five-minute period where nostalgia is too much and thoughts of this person you are feel foreign. When you realize that you’ll never be this young again but this is the first time you’ve ever been this old. When you can’t remember how you got from sixteen to here and all the same feel like sixteen is just as much of a stranger to you now. The song is over. The coffee’s done. You’re going to breathe in and out. You’re going to be fine in about five minutes.

The Winter of the Air  (via fuckinq)

this seriously fucked me up right now

(via fight-0ff-yourdem0ns)

Really fucked up.. Holy shit

(via whipitharder)

If a poem hasn’t ripped apart your soul; you haven’t experienced poetry. — Edgar Allan Poe (via artichokes-hearts)