Any woman that’s in any kind of success is so many different colours, so many different elements. And if you want to create a real woman that people really fall in love with, that your leading man really would want to be engaged with and is his muse, then let’s paint all of her, you know.

Stana Katic (via glow-fromtheinside)

No matter what the tally was, I always lost. I was always thinking in terms of too much or not enough, rarely allowing myself that crucial space in between.

David Levithan, Wide Awake (via anditslove)

I spent like 10 years of my life pretending to fly around on a broomstick and you’re asking me if preparing for a love scene was ‘tricky’ because the other person also had a penis?

Daniel Radcliffe (via hankgreensmoustache)

So, what if, instead of thinking about solving your whole life, you just think about adding additional good things. One at a time. Just let your pile of good things grow.

Attachments, Rainbow Rowell  (via ha-n)

(Source: anditslove)

I guess that’s what happens in the end, you start thinking about the beginning.

(Source: daylightring)

Look, I am holding up my two hands, and between them is Leningrad. I am holding up my two hands and between them is a black space where Marya Morevna is not speaking. She would like to, because she thinks a story is like a treasure, and can belong to only one dragon. But I make her share; I will not let her have the whole thing. I have this power. I will not let her speak because I love her, and when you love someone you do not make them tell war stories. A war story is a black space. On the one side is before and on the other side is after, and what is inside belongs only to the dead. Besides, what happened between the two hands I am holding up is squeezed between the pages of the books of the dead, which are written on my hands, because I died in that space where Marya Morevna is not speaking. And now it is all clear, and now you understand.

Deathless, Catherynne M. Valente (via jaimelannister)

(Source: russiancohle)



My grandma would always x out people in her yearbook and write “Deceased” when one of her high school classmates died. We often found it morbid. Grandma wanted to be the last one living. She wanted to win.

That’s not a yearbook.

That’s a hit list.

There is nothing
than being empty.
I wonder if my happiness
will run out.
I wonder if I will eventually
purge my love.
What if this emptiness
is deeper than physicality?
We are the little girls
from nothing
from everything.
This will weigh heavy on you,
so you try
to stay empty.

Michelle K., Heavy. (via michellekpoems)