#la

I blame boobs. ↗

— Jennifer L. Armentrout

#boobs #pure #seth #blame

Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form. ↗

— Rumi

#consolation #grief #loss #reincarnation #loss

It is a strange thing, but when you are dreading something, and would give anything to slow down time, it has a disobliging habit of speeding up. ↗

— J.K. Rowling

#hungarian-horntail #panic #relativity #strange

It was strange, really. A couple months ago, I had thought I couldn’t live without him. Apparently I could. ↗

— Gabrielle Zevin

#revelation #strange

My God, a moment of bliss. Why, isn't that enough for a whole lifetime? ↗

— Fyodor Dostoyevsky

#lasting #pleasure #temporary #pleasure

I'll bet you could make a woman throw out all her toys ↗

— Larissa Ione

#pleasure

One should use common words to say uncommon things ↗

— Arthur Schopenhauer

#naivete #simplicity #writing #simplicity

All people on the planet are children, except for a very few. No one is grown up except those free of desire. ↗

— Rumi

#desire

Valentine whirled. Clary, lying half-conscious in the sand, her wrists and arms a screaming agony, stared defiantly back. For a moment their eyes met—and he looked at her, really looked at her, and she realized it was the first time her father had ever looked her in the face and seen her. The first and only time. “Clarissa,” he said. “What have you done?” Clary stretched out her hand, and with her finger she wrote in the sand at his feet. She didn’t draw runes. She drew words: the words he had said to her the first time he’d seen what she could do, when she’d drawn the rune that had destroyed his ship. MENE MENE TEKEL UPSHARIN. ↗

— Cassandra Clare

#consciousness

A poet is a nightingale who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. ↗

— Percy Bysshe Shelley

#poets