He was the crazy one who had painted himself black and defeated the world.

She was the book thief without the words.

Trust me, though, the words were on their way, and when they arrived, Liesel would hold them in her hands like the clouds, and she would wring them out like rain.


written by Markus Zusak, The Book Thief (via scamanders)

(Source: book-answers, via thekatediary)

juxtapologist:

thelovelybones:

paintings by Allison Schulnik

It isn’t even mixed media oh my goodness.

musicalblogging:

Laura Palmer (Abbey Road Sessions) Bastille

mad love for this

Falling in love with yourself first doesn’t make you vain or selfish, it makes you indestructible.
written by Things I’ll teach my children (via tierdropp)

(Source: humblebackbones, via cooldadmulder)

This is why it hurts the way it hurts.

You have too many words in your head. There are too many ways to describe the way you feel. You will never have the luxury of a dull ache.

You must suffer through the intricacy of feeling too much.


written by Iain S. Thomas (via southeastskies)

(Source: abluesforbrklyn, via 13wanderingsouls)

lagubeko:

All the Buildings in New York, James Gulliver Hancock.

do you ever go into a book store and just find all of your favourite author’s books even though you already have them and you just hover in that general area for a while

(Source: tylerjjoseph, via thewallflowerandherwonderwall)

shesinacoma:

“Just a few days after Nabokov’s death, there was an invasion of butterflies out in Springs, Long Island. It probably happens every year. But the reason I noticed the butterflies this time was the presence—or the absence—of Nabokov.” Saul Steinberg, from “Portraits and Landscapes”