"It wasn’t my day. My week. My month. My year. My life. God damn it."

Charles Bukowski, Pulp (via anamorphosis-and-isolate)

(via 15feetofpurewhitesnow)

"Now the only chatter that rose

was the birds’, dark wings outspread
to catch the last of the light. Then back
they fell into their deep well of darkness.
At night they clung to its steep sides
in sleep, as the soul must do in life,

in death, unthinkingly, if there is a soul."

Debora Greger, from “The Cadillac of the Dead,” Poetry (May 2004)

(Source: a-pair-of-ragged-claws, via mirroir)

"She wore flowers in her hair and carried magic secrets in her eyes. She spoke to no one. She spent hours on the riverbank and had midnight swims."

Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things  (via mirroir)

(Source: splitterherzen, via mirroir)

"Theres a brief moment when you first wake up, where you have no memories. A blissful blank slate, a happy emptiness."

AnnaSophia Robb, The Carrie Diaries (via endoshima)

(Source: collapsed, via endoshima)

"Stop measuring days by degree of productivity and start experiencing them by degree of presence."

Alan Watts (via endoshima)

(Source: artreture, via endoshima)

"What did Time smell like? Like dust and clocks and people. And if you wondered what Time sounded like, it sounded like water running in a dark cave and voices crying and dirt dropping down upon hollow box lids, and rain. And, going further, what did Time look like? Time looked like snow dropping silently into a black room or it looked like a silent film in an ancient theater, one hundred billion faces falling like those New Year balloons, down and down into nothing."

Ray Bradbury, from The Martian Chronicles (Doubleday, 1950)  (via mirroir)

(Source: blacktout, via mirroir)

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