“Sometimes we caught sight of tattered knee socks rounding a corner, or came upon them doubled over, shoving books into a cubbyhole, flicking the hair out of their eyes. But it was always the same: their white faces drifting in slow motion past us, while we pretended we hadn’t been looking for them at all, that we didn’t know they existed.”—The Virgin Suicides (via katiekayy) (via sofiacoppola) (via sophiejade)
i’ve been a puppet, a pauper, a pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king i’ve been up and down and over and out but i know one thing each time i find myself, flat on my face i pick myself up and get back in the race
that’s life i can’t deny it i thought of quitting, baby this heart wasn’t gonna buy it and if i didn’t think it was worth one single try i’d jump right on a big bird and then i’d fly
i listen to this song when i miss someone or when i feel sad. my dancetherapist played this for us when she moved away. it’s months ago and i feel like i am forgetting things about her. it hurts a bit. so i’ll play this song again. and again.
“beyond the tilled plain, beyond the toy roofs, there would be a low suffusion of inutile loveliness, a low sun in a platinum haze with a warm, peeled-peach tinge pervading the upper edge of a two-dimensional, dove-grey cloud fusing with the distant amorous mist. there might be a line of spaced trees silhouetted against the horizon, and hot still noons above a wilderness of clover, and claude lorrain clouds inscribed remotely into misty azure with only their cumulus part conscpicuous against the neutral swoon of the background. or again, it might be a stern el greco horizon, pregnant with inky rain, and a passing glimpse of some mummy-necked farmer, and all around alternating strips of quick-silverish water and harsh green corn, the whole arrangement opening like a fan, somewhere in kansas.”—Lolita, Vladmir Nabokov (via sandysays)