#light

Love makes you stupid. Love makes you weak. Love will kill you all one day, and it’s going to kill you today. ↗

— J.X. Burros

#love #scarlet-spotlight #vampire #death

A work-in-progress generates its own energy field. You, the artist or entrepreneur, are pouring love into the work; you are suffusing it with passion and intention and hope. ↗

— Steven Pressfield

#love

Treat 'em like dogs, and you'll have dogs' works and dogs' actions. Treat 'em like men, and you'll have men's works. ↗

— Harriet Beecher Stowe

#men

...you definitely are deep water Dr. Fisher. Fathoms deep. ↗

— J.M. Richards

#davin #nicknames #romantic #tall-dark-streak-of-lightning #romantic

We can buy you one of those books they have for little kids 'Timmy Has Two Dads'. Except I don't think they have one called 'Timmy Has Two Dads and One of Them Was Evil'. That part you're just going to have to work through on your own. ↗

— Cassandra Clare

#jace-lightwood #mortal-instruments #shadowhunters #simon-lewis #work

You can only control your own actions. Not other people’s reactions. ↗

— Emily Giffin

#action

Words of love cast from thy lips reach another heart at lightning speed. ↗

— Molly Friedenfeld

#heart #inspiration #inspirational-quotes #joy #lightning-speed

Traded him for Alec," Clary said. "Not permanently" "No," said Jace. "Just for a few hours. Unless I don't come back. In which case, maybe he does get to keep Alec. Think of it as a lease with an option to buy." "Mom and Dad won't be pleased if they find out." "That you freed a possible criminal by trading away your brother to a warlock who looks like a gay Sonic the Hedgehog and dresses like the Child Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang?" Simon inquired. "No, probably not. ↗

— Cassandra Clare

#isabelle-lightwood #jace-wayland #mortal-instruments #simon-lewis #child

Southampton's barrage balloons floated gleaming in the moonlight like the ghosts of elephants and hippos. ↗

— Elizabeth Wein

#ghosts #hippos #moonlight #simile #simile

ALL HE COULD SEE, IN EVERY DIRECTION, WAS WATER. It was June 23, 1943. Somewhere on the endless expanse of the Pacific Ocean, Army Air Forces bombardier and Olympic runner Louie Zamperini lay across a small raft, drifting westward. Slumped alongside him was a sergeant, one of his plane’s gunners. On a separate raft, tethered to the first, lay another crewman, a gash zigzagging across his forehead. Their bodies, burned by the sun and stained yellow from the raft dye, had winnowed down to skeletons. Sharks glided in lazy loops around them, dragging their backs along the rafts, waiting. ↗

— Laura Hillenbrand

#world-war-ii