Autumn finally arrived. And when it did, I came to a decision. Something had to give: I couldn’t keep on living like this.
— Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun (via the59thstreetbridge)
Maybe we’ll meet again, when we are slightly older and our minds less hectic, and I’ll be right for you and you’ll be right for me. But right now, I am chaos to your thoughts and you are poison to my heart.
— (via drizzlelullaby)
Dean Village, Edinburgh, Scotland
Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.
— Kait Rokowski (via ignify)
a cozy art for a stormy weather.
Do you still perform autopsies on conversations you had lives ago?
— Donte Collins (via paintdeath)