And when I wake early I say to myself: Fight, fight. If I could catch the feeling, I would: the feeling of the singing of the real world; the sense that comes to me of being bound on a perpetual adventure — of being strangely free to do anything

Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry (via wanduring)

(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via grace-full)

Spend your free time the way you like, not the way you think you’re supposed to. Stay home on New Year’s Eve if that’s what makes you happy. Skip the committee meeting. Cross the street to avoid making aimless chitchat with random acquaintances. Read. Cook. Run. Write a story.

Susan Cain, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking  (via anditwasmonday)

(Source: psych-facts, via featherumbrellas)


Books are written by the alone for the alone // Donna Tartt.


my birthday is tomorrow

(via blue-tang-clan)

It’s your flaws I want to taste.
Your crooked mouth.
The way you smell after being
out all day. Your knees, so eager
to bend
to whatever song is playing in
your head.
Your chest, as it rises and falls
and rises and falls
on the carpeted ground. Your
sometimes smooth chin.
Your pimpled politeness. Your
tangled hair.
Your good morning,
every morning.
I don’t want to be able to run
my fingers through you easily.
It is no fun writing about

I want to talk about you.
Flawed. Crooked.

Lora Mathis, Black Coffee (via larmoyante)

yes i wrote this thank you 

(via lora-mathis)

(via lora-mathis)

…that fitful strain of melancholy which will ever be found inseperable from the perfection of the beautiful.

Edgar Allan Poe, from “the Assignation,” Edgar Allan Poe: Complete Tales & Poems (Castle Books, 2009)  (via apoetreflects)

(Source: lilachris, via apoetreflects)

I am a fist of my unease.

Anne Sexton (via dieworten)

(Source: mooneyedandglowing, via thatwaferguy)

115,053 plays

(Source: infinite--playlist, via marrisseyy)


other people // beach house
dnt remove my caption

not my poem just my edit