We’re not something, but we’re not nothing.

— Unknown  (via crystalreed)

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After the first glass of vodka
you can accept just about anything
of life even your own mysteriousness
you think it is nice that a box
of matches is purple and brown and is called La Petite and comes from Sweden
for they are words that you know and that is all you know words not their feelings or what they mean and you write because you know them not because you understand them because you don’t you are stupid and lazy and will never be great but you do what you know because what else is there?

— Frank O’Hara (via observando)

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I liked the idea of living in a city - any city, especially a strange one - liked the thought of traffic and crowds, of working in a bookstore, waiting tables in a coffee shop, who knew what kind of odd, solitary life I might slip into? Meals alone, walking the dogs in the evening; and nobody knowing who I was.

Donna Tartt, The Secret History  (via stainedpoems)

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by  WoodPigeon
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(by Nicola Abraham)
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What happens to a dream deferred?


Does it dry up 
like a raisin in the sun? 
Or fester like a sore— 
And then run? 
Does it stink like rotten meat? 
Or crust and sugar over— 
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?”

Langston Hughes

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