Hopelessromantism - Rotwriting

“I’ve always hated my name for some reason. It always sounded weird when it passed through my lips like it never belonged to me, but when I heard you say it for the first time it was as if it was the only name I’ve ever known. You didn’t shorten it or call me by a nickname it was always my own, nothing more nothing less. You said a name as beautiful as mine should never be butchered in such a way and I believed you. Then you left and the boy I talk to now calls me by a different name and you don’t call me at all.”

— S.Z / Excerpts from a book I’ll never finish #4 (via elvishbabes)

What the Living Do, Marie Howe

"In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on."

-Robert Frost

“and like the

moon, we must

go through

phases of

emptiness to feel

full again.”

“Why do you always look up?” he asked.

She doesn’t want to share her secret. She doesn’t want to tell anyone what the real reason is. Yet for him, she found herself honestly speaking. “I don’t always look up. I just stare at the sky, whenever I feel the need to breathe. I look up every time I wanted to tell the world that I survived another day. That I love how the stars shine as if they were smiling at me.” She glanced at him and said, “It’s stunning, you know. The sky. No matter what mood it shows me. No matter how imperfect it is. It’s wonderful. And it always reminds me that there’s something beautiful beyond everything.”

Infinite // ma.c.a

From The Tragedy of Macbeth by William Shakespeare (1606).

wish my life was like a 90's movie where all my friends work in record stores and bookshops and coffee shops and we see really cool bands in small little clubs and get breakfast together and like hang out on roofs and shit

"the feminine urge to compliment another woman."

ma makes one aware of the presence of absence. It’s the gap where the moonlight sifts through; it’s the space between two slate stones that guide your steps along a path; it’s the hollow where ghosts gather; it’s the pause in conversation, the ripe silence of the unspoken.

Nina MacLaughlin, from “The Dark Feels Different in November” , The Paris Review