"I learned how to drink champagne a while ago. But the way I like to drink champagne is I like to make what we call a Montana Cooler, where you buy a case of champagne and you take all the bottles out, and you take all the cardboard out, and you put a garbage bag inside of it, then you put all…
Just because she is no longer
a part of my life doesn’t mean
that she is not here with me
anymore. She is inside of my
every move, every word,
and every feeling. Even though
she is gone, she will never
really disintegrate from my mind.
(Source: dashedlines, via thatkindofwoman)
What do you do?”
“It’s kind of hard to explain.”
“Because what you do is complicated?”
“Because I don’t really do it. — Frances Ha (via kateoplis)
Obviously, they are not making cat doors as big as they used to.
When a memory comes alive, it becomes fluent. It speaks to you in tongues you never thought that existed. Accuracy ceases to matter and the sublimity of your most naked experiences echoes through every cell of your body. When a memory comes alive, it becomes mythical and transparent; it pierces your veins with colours, smells and that particularly rhythmical sensation of constant movement. Impeccable in its palliating formlessness, it perhaps screams or whispers. And if you have the capacity to hear, the wholeness of what a memory consists of, stays with you. It nestles in that very exclusive and deeply private spot of your heart and it allows you to fondle it from within. Or it leaves you broken, it dismantles your ego and crushes your selfhood. It leaves you thinking that all truth is dark ; you start questioning why you still can’t shake it off your head, it swallows the sum of your parts one by one with alarming impatience, it does not quite forgive your softness. It devours. It exhausts the fuck out of your system. It feels so unimaginably real that, somehow, it becomes you. And whether its intensity outlives you or not, it’s still passionately persistent and affecting your own little “reality” show. When a memory comes alive – you are. — All These Things You Wish You’d Say (via violentwavesofemotion)
I shall go on shining as a brilliantly meaningless figure in a meaningless world. — F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned (via larmoyante)
There is no need for you to leave the house. Stay at your table and listen. Don’t even listen, just wait. Don’t even wait, be completely quiet and alone. The world will offer itself to you to be unmasked; it can’t do otherwise; in raptures it will writhe before you. — Franz Kafka, Aphorisms (via larmoyante)
You lucky, lucky girl. You have an apartment just your size. A bathtub full of tea. A heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. Don’t wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes, your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them. You had to have him. And you did. And now you pull down the bridge between your houses, you make him call before he visits, you take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. Make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. Place it on whatever altar you fashion with a knife and five cranberries. Don’t lose too much weight. Stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge. And you are not stupid. You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street. — Frida Kahlo (via imitosi-s)
(Source: theunquotables, via skin-n-bones)
I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you every Tuesday.
— Lemony Snicket
(Source: theunquotables, via thatkindofwoman)