The impulse to write things down is a peculiarly compulsive one, inexplicable to those who do not share it, useful only accidentally, only secondarily, in the way that any compulsion tries to justify itself. I suppose that it begins or does not begin in the cradle. Although I have felt compelled to write things down since I was five years old, I doubt that my daughter ever will, for she is a singularly blessed and accepting child, delighted with life exactly as life presents itself to her, unafraid to go to sleep at night and unafraid to wake up. Keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss.
Don’t fall in love
Would not recommend. Sucks.
Every love story is a ghost story, if it lasts long enough.
—rob sheffield, on bruce springsteen’s wrecking ball
If there is a God, He will have to beg my forgiveness.
—A phrase that was carved on the walls of a concentration camp cell during WWII by a Jewish prisoner (via xstayfocused
They told you to build a home and you made it, didn’t you baby?
You found a boy and wrapped his arms around you. You nestled between his hipbones and called it beautiful.
They never told you to find a place, find a place.
Because when you leave a place that’s your choice. When he leaves, it’s his.