_clovercloud

He is pure and selfless, while I am tainted and selfish. He is a beauty while I am a disgrace next to him. He is kind while I want to burn anyone who dares to harm him. He is a free bird while I am a prisoner to my own body.

We are damned souls refusing to pass through, fearing that we'll find on the other side will be worse than the horror we already know

Books, she has found, are a way to live a thousand lives---or to find strength in a very long one

but in the end, stories are about one person saying to another: This is the way it feels to me. Can you understand what I'm saying? Do you feel this way to you?

I love un-made bed. I love when people are drunk and crying and can't be anything but honest in that moment. I love that look when they first wake up and they have forgotten their surrounding. I love the look in people's eye when they realise they are in love. I love the gasp people take when their favourite character dies. I love when people close their eyes and drift to somewhere in the clouds. I fall in love with their ugly parts--the breakdowns and smeared makeup and daydreams. Honestly is just too beautiful to ever put in words

and that the thing about people who mean everything they say; they think everyone else does too.