"There were things I wanted to tell him. But I knew they would hurt him. So I buried them, and let them hurt me." (Jonathan Safran Foer)
“Admit it. You aren’t like them. You’re not even close. You may
occasionally dress yourself up as one of them, watch the same mindless
television shows as they do, maybe even eat the same fast food sometimes. But
it seems that the more you try to fit in, the more you feel like an outsider,
watching the “normal people” as they go about their automatic existences. For
every time you say club passwords like “Have a nice day” and “Weather’s awful
today, eh?”, you yearn inside to say forbidden things like “Tell me something
that makes you cry” or “What do you think deja vu is for?”. Face it, you even
want to talk to that girl in the elevator. But what if that girl in the
elevator (and the balding man who walks past your cubicle at work) are thinking
the same thing? Who knows what you might learn from taking a chance on
conversation with a stranger? Everyone carries a piece of the puzzle. Nobody
comes into your life by mere coincidence. Trust your instincts. Do the
unexpected. Find the others.” (Timothy Leary)
"I was satisfied with
haiku until I met you, but now I want a Russian novel, a 50-page description of
you sleeping." (Dean Young)
"Where he was fire,
she was ice. He was made of a raging flame, she was made of a cool blue frost.
He was the brand, she was the freeze. He was hot air, she was the cool breeze.
While he schemed, she dreamed. While he careened, she was serene. While he was,
she seemed. Where he left behind ash, she left behind water. He was a brazen
son, she was a jilted daughter. He proclaimed, she refrained. He saw the world
in light with shadow, she saw the world in blue by midnight’s swallow. If he
was a king, she was a queen. If he was the sun, she was the moon. He could eat
the stars, but she could hold them. Together, he burnt up and withered away,
she melted and slid to the earth, as their love yielded something greater than
either of them: steam."
"If
I breathe you in and you breathe me out, I swear we can breathe forever. I
swear I’ll find summer in your winter and spring in your autumn and always,
hands at the ends of your fingers, arms at the ends of your shoulders and I
swear, when we run out of forever, when we run out of air, your name will be
the last word that my lungs make air for." (Iain Thomas, I wrote this for you)
"Most people live these scripted, horrid lives. They pretend to
like things they don’t care for. They spend hours in conversation with
uninteresting people for the sake of social acceptance. I see people, I mean I
literally watch them pick around at the food they just ordered, pick around at
the lives they’ve chosen, their thoughts almost audible: “This isn’t what I
wanted, but I’m watching my weight.” ”This isn’t the job I wanted, but
it’s too late to start over.” I see them walk around in shoes that hurt their
feet for a job that hurts their soul. They have pretend smiles, pretend
lives. Writing, for me, is my shadow that, whenever I tread too close to
this strange, painful settling in my own life, says, “Fuck you, what the fuck
are you doing. If your heart’s not racing, if your eyes aren’t wild, if your
mouths not salivating, move on.”"
"I’ve always had a terrible weakness for beautiful
but sad things." (Gabriel’s Inferno)
"I don't think the connection between us has been formed through words. You understand me just by looking at the expression on my face, and it shows when you gaze into my eyes. Thats what makes me wonder, sometimes, whether such a crooked, twisted hook is perishable, or whether I'll be tied to you forever."
"Writers are forgetful, but they remember everything. They forget appointments and anniversaries but remember what you wore, how you smelled on your first date. They remember every story you've ever told them but forget what you just said. They don't remember to take out the trash or water the plants but they don't forget how to make you laugh. Writers are forgetful because they are busy remembering the important things."
"I changed my mind about heaven."
"What would it be?" She whispered.
"A blanket. A bed. You."
"Books don't offer real escape, but they can stop a mind from scratching itself raw. " (David Mitchell)
"I don't think the connection between us has been formed through words. You understand me just by looking at the expression on my face, and it shows when you gaze into my eyes. Thats what makes me wonder, sometimes, whether such a crooked, twisted hook is perishable, or whether I'll be tied to you forever."
"Writers are forgetful, but they remember everything. They forget appointments and anniversaries but remember what you wore, how you smelled on your first date. They remember every story you've ever told them but forget what you just said. They don't remember to take out the trash or water the plants but they don't forget how to make you laugh. Writers are forgetful because they are busy remembering the important things."
"I changed my mind about heaven."
"What would it be?" She whispered.
"A blanket. A bed. You."
"Books don't offer real escape, but they can stop a mind from scratching itself raw. " (David Mitchell)
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