It is easy to forget how full the world is of people, full to bursting, and each of them imaginable and consistently misimagined.
fishingboatproceeds:
moderatelyhumorous:
My mother left me a note to tell me how thankful she was that I suggested such an uplifting novel for her to read
Parent/Child relationship: You are doing it right.
About everyone who asked for rare songs and I never answered
I totally did not notice any of these messages. Sorry. haha. But the thing is my attachments aren’t working in gmail, so I’m gonna have to try to get to a different computer (or make a yahoo account… ew). I swear I’ll get around to it soon
hey im a taylor swift fan and the happy face you just received was sent by me please disregard it because the ask box wasnt working very well i'm new to this unreleased songs and i would like to know if you're able to share any songs with me please let me know when you can and i'll try to send you my email and the four songs i would like to have thanks
Anonymous
I’d be happy to~ Sorry for taking forever to reply haha hopefully you see this.
Language buries, but does not resurrect….The dead are visible only in the terrible lidless eye of memory. The living, thank heaven, retain the ability to surprise and to disappoint.
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The Fault in Our Stars (John Green)
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We are like a bunch of dogs squirting on fire hydrants. We poison the groundwater with our toxic piss, marking everything MINE in a ridiculous attempt to survive our deaths. I can’t stop pissing on fire hydrants. I know it’s silly and useless- especially useless in my current state- but I am an animal like any other.
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Augustus Waters, The Fault In Our Stars (via meelimonster)
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Leaving feels good and pure only when you leave something important, something that mattered to you. Pulling life out by the roots. But you can’t do that until your life has grown roots.
Given the final futility of our struggle, is the sudden jolt of meaning that art gives us valuable? Or is the only value in passing the time as comfortably as possible? What should a story seek to emulate? A ringing alarm? A call to arms? A morphine drip? Of course, like all interrogation of the universe, this line of argument inevitably reduces us to asking what it means to be human, and whether— to borrow the phrase from the angst-encumbered sixteen-year-olds you no doubt revile— there is a point to it all.
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The Fault In Our Stars, Chapter 5 (page 68 US Edition)
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