December 2011
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to keep from crying, she talked too much and too loudly, and she laughed.
-milan kundera, the unbearable lightness of being
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lana,
my dear, don’t weep because the world is unkind. it always will be.
men will break out hearts or tie our brains into knots, not out of wit (oh, no, they have none of that), but out of their simplicity-and that’s all okay because we’re women and we strive for more. we strive for that moment- that one short-lasting, forever unique, snowflake of a moment.
it melts on your...
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the pains of being pure at heart; a teenager in...
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the sad part about it all is that the only thing that i can recall is the taste of blood.
and that was only because i was biting on my bottom lip too hard.
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Anonymous asked: Thoughts on Cather in the Rye?
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at 11:47pm, my sister and i are most likely to be found in the dining room, swing dancing.
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the girl in the candy cupboard
there is a very small girl that lives in the candy cupboard and she hides behind sweets and treats.
the girl eats rosebuds and feathers and pastries because you are what you eat and she just wants to be precious.
At night, she cracks open the cupboard door and she wafts the scent of the moonlight and it smells like comfort and that’s all that she needs-if only for a little while.
she...
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“it would be a good song for slow, silent sex. the kind you have after getting in a fight in the rain outside but then realizing you were both wrong and you love each other even if you didn’t see it before so you collapse in the backseat of his car and it’s totally intimate and slow and raw.”
- a friend’s interpretation of closer by kings of leon
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(…Anna Pavlova was told that she had pneumonia and required an operation. She was also told that she would never be able to dance again if she went ahead with it. She refused to have the surgery, saying “If I can’t dance then I’d rather be dead.” She died three weeks short of her 50th birthday. She was holding her costume from The Dying Swan when she spoke her last...
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yearbook quote ideas:
‘i hate you all.’
‘i really hate you all.’
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maybe i’ll go to china. my sex life is lousy.
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i wrote the moon a love letter today and she wrote a message back in the sand:
i’ll always be here.
but i already knew that, and so i bathed in that promise, kissed her goodnight, and fell asleep, cupped in her crescent.
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i worked for seven hours today, which sucked, but then spence came into town and we drove around town blasting bob dylan and went on a walk downtown by the christmas lights so everything is nice now.
and if you’re ever really really overwhelmed by everything, i highly recommend bob dylan and christmas lights and walking.
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the xx; crystalised
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“you’re a photo-album, you know that? you’re just a bunch of pretty pictures. you’re just a reminder of all the good times.”
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the black art
A woman who writes feels too much, those trances and portents! As if cycles and children and islands weren’t enough; as if mourners and gossips and vegetables were never enough. She thinks she can warn the stars. A writer is essentially a spy. Dear love, I am that girl. A man who writes knows too much, such spells and fetiches! As if erections and congresses and products weren’t...
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The boy was rather peculiar, he was the kind of boy that liked to watch stars quiver. He quivered himself. The insides of his body ached with foreign emotions that he could not explain to anyone.
He was pathetic fallacy. He was the ever-changing weather. He devoted himself to kissing the moon goodbye every morning and singing lullabies to the sun every evening. It was no secret that the boy was...
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he is the saddest love story i know.
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sometimes i believe that the moon has a greater effect on me than she does on the tides.
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