He never broke my heart. He only turned it into a compass that always points me back to him.
Clementine von Radics, In Defense of Loving Him

(Source: notafuckinglady)




Melancholy was a bomb and it would always, quite strangely, choose her own fragile hands to go off.
Virginia Woolf, The Voyage Out.

(Source: theburnthatkeepseverything)


People run from rain but sit in bathtubs full of water.
Charles Bukowski

(Source: cachaemic)