Live on coffee and flowers. Try not to worry what the weather will be.
Matt Berninger (via natashakills)
(Source: thetigerleaps, via natashakills)
![“You’ll find another.’ God! Banish the thought. Why don’t you tell me that ‘if the girl had been worth having she’d have waited for you’? No, sir, the girl really worth having won’t wait for anybody.”
F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise
[Dior, Pre-Fall 2013]](http://24.media.tumblr.com/0e0f7539a0fd36dc1fdca4600d69e209/tumblr_mggush9FEg1qkeybeo1_400.jpg)
![“You’ll find another.’ God! Banish the thought. Why don’t you tell me that ‘if the girl had been worth having she’d have waited for you’? No, sir, the girl really worth having won’t wait for anybody.”
F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise
[Dior, Pre-Fall 2013]](http://24.media.tumblr.com/0e0f7539a0fd36dc1fdca4600d69e209/tumblr_mggush9FEg1qkeybeo1_1280.jpg)
“You’ll find another.’
God! Banish the thought. Why don’t you tell me that ‘if the girl had been worth having she’d have waited for you’? No, sir, the girl really worth having won’t wait for anybody.”F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise
[Dior, Pre-Fall 2013]
(Source: ejakulation, via coffeestainedcashmere)
gnasche
n. the intense desire to bite deeply into the forearm of someone you love.
Sea otters hold hands when they sleep, so they don’t drift away from each other.
Interesting thing, these fellows never seem to get the idea of perspective-‘
The Bursar thought, or received the thought: that’s because perspective is a lie. If I know a pond is round then why should I draw it oval? I will draw it round because round is true. Why should my brush lie to you just because my eye lies to me?
The Bursar thought, or received the thought: that’s because perspective is a lie. If I know a pond is round then why should I draw it oval? I will draw it round because round is true. Why should my brush lie to you just because my eye lies to me?
(The Last Continent)
Lovers’ reading of each other’s bodies (of that concentrate of mind and body which lovers use to go to bed together) differs from the reading of written pages in that it is not linear. It starts at any point, skips, repeat itself, goes backward, insists, ramifies in simultaneous and divergent messages, converges again, has moments of irritation, turns the page, finds its place, gets lost. A direction can be recognized in it, a route to an end, since it tends toward a climax, and with this end in view it arranges rhythmic phases, metrical scansions, recurrence of motives. But is the climax really the end? Or is the race toward that end opposed by another drive which works in the opposite direction, swimming against moments, recovering time?
Italo Calvino (If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler)
