“Memories of the past would return to us more often if only we sought them out, sought their intense sweetness. But we let them slumber within us, and worse, we let them die, rot, so much so that the generous impulses that sweep through our souls when we are twenty we later call naive, foolish…Our purest, most passionate loves take on the depraved appearance of sordid pleasure.” —Fire in the Blood, Irène Némirovsky (via black-wolves)
“Isn’t it odd how much fatter a book gets when you’ve read it several times? As if something were left between the pages every time you read it. Feelings, thoughts, sounds, smells, and then, when you look at the book again many years later, you find yourself there, too, a slightly younger self, slightly different, as if the book had preserved you like a pressed flower, both strange and familiar.” —Cornelia Funke (via salveo)
“And even though I can’t be sure, memory tells me that these times are worth working for.” — Local Natives, Camera Talk (via politefight)
Awkward question, but could you show your ear?
ergh…. yeah. I’ll post it in a few minutes
“The saddest people I’ve ever met in life are the ones who don’t care deeply about anything at all. Passion and satisfaction go hand in hand, and without them, any happiness is only temporary, because there’s nothing to make it last.” —Nicholas Sparks (via whorchata)
A hurricane you say?
IT’S TEQUILA TIME!!!
“The sun streams (no, never streams; floods rather) down upon all the yellow fields and the long low barns; and what wouldn’t I give to be coming through Firle woods, dirty and hot, with my nose turned home, every muscle tired and the brain laid up in sweet lavender, so sane and cool, and ripe for the morrow’s task. How I should notice everything—the phrase for it coming the moment after and fitting like a glove; and then on the dusty road, as I ground my pedals, so my story would begin telling itself; and the sun would be down; and home, and some bout of poetry after dinner, half read, half lived, as if the flesh were dissolved and through it the flowers burst red and white.” —Virginia Woolf (via black-wolves)
Are you an athiest?
You mean atheist?
I’ve never believed in god.