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Aug 1, 2014 / 171,019 notes
Aug 1, 2014 / 102 notes

Paris, 1930.
Aug 1, 2014 / 2,753 notes
Aug 1, 2014 / 281,696 notes
So that’s what I’m here to become. And suddenly, this word fills me with a brand of sadness I haven’t felt since childhood. The kind of sadness you feel at the end of summer. When the fireflies are gone, the ponds have dried up and the plants are wilted, weary from being so green.
Augusten Burroughs (via durianquotes)

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Aug 1, 2014 / 59 notes

Roads? Where we’re going, there are no roads. 
Jul 31, 2014 / 6,511 notes


Roads? Where we’re going, there are no roads. 

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Jul 31, 2014 / 688 notes
Jul 31, 2014 / 821,764 notes


I hope when you die you get to see your stats like how many times you laughed or told a lie or kissed or how many people loved you and how many people hated you and what you meant to people

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Jul 31, 2014 / 7,501 notes
The French called this time of day “l’heure bleue.” To the English it was “the gloaming.” The very word “gloaming” reverberates, echoes—the gloaming, the glimmer, the glitter, the glisten, the glamour—carrying in its consonants the images of houses shuttering, gardens darkening, grass-lined rivers slipping through the shadows. During the blue nights you think the end of day will never come. As the blue nights draw to a close (and they will, and they do) you experience an actual chill, an apprehension of illness, at the moment you first notice: the blue light is going, the days are already shortening, the summer is gone.
Joan Didion, Blue Nights 
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Jul 31, 2014 / 3,826 notes