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  • 1 week ago

You like him because he’s a lost boy. Believe me, I’ve seen it happen before. But do you know what happens to girls who love lost boys? They become lost themselves. Without fail.

David Levithan, Every Day (via rlyrlyugly)
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  • 2 weeks ago
  • 24863

Exist with me. We’d do so beautifully.

Alaska Gold. (via hereunoia)
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  • 2 weeks ago
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  • 2 weeks ago
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I want to be like water. I want to slip through fingers, but hold up a ship.

Michelle Williams (via psych-facts)
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  • 2 weeks ago
  • 48453

I have this vision: That I would finally come and find you. Scattered pieces of distance would not stand in my way. Not needing words; the barest of glimpses would suffice for you and me.

Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena  (via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)
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  • 2 weeks ago
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  • 2 weeks ago
  • 1560

Smooth and smiling faces everywhere, but ruin in their eyes.

Jean-Paul Sartre (via likeafieldmouse)
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  • 2 weeks ago
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  • 2 weeks ago
  • 3792

You are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing.

E.E. Cummings (via rabbitinthemoon)
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  • 2 weeks ago
  • 19475

We have not touched the stars,
nor are we forgiven, which brings us back
to the hero’s shoulders and the
gentleness that comes,
not from the absence of violence,
but despite the abundance of it.

Richard Siken  (via mirroir)
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  • 2 weeks ago
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  • 3 weeks ago
  • 31999

Sext: I saw you for the first time in 3 years yesterday and all of a sudden I was 15 again and it was January and I still thought that love smelled like stale Christmas trees and tasted like snow. And we became adults together and fell apart like adults do because they don’t know anything more than children.
Sext: I saw you for the first time in 3 years yesterday, but you did not even act like you recognized me and suddenly I am 18 and it is June and love smells like melting asphalt and tastes like blood.

"The First One" by Claire Luisa (via siameasy)
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  • 1 month ago
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  • 1 month ago
  • 265864

This morning I suddenly catch myself: I’m not there, I’m so lost in thought, I don’t know what’s going on around me. Can you think yourself to death?

Anna Kamienska, A Nest of Quiet: A Notebook (translated by Clare Cavanagh)
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  • 1 month ago
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