𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑓𝑙𝑎𝑤𝑠.

The vibe my crush brings to the function ♥︎

“𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑚𝑖𝑔𝘩𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛 𝐺𝑟𝑦𝑓𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑟, 𝑊𝘩𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑑𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑡 𝘩𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡, 𝑇𝘩𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑛𝑒𝑟𝑣𝑒, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑐𝘩𝑖𝑣𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑦, 𝑆𝑒𝑡 𝐺𝑟𝑦𝑓𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑟𝑠 𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡;

― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

The little orphan girl represented loneliness, sadness, being invisible. Emilia sat at the window as she watched another little girl get adopted—for the fourth time this week. She always wondered if something was wrong with her. She was aware that she was a bit odd. She liked things other kids didn’t. She read books about the stars and whispered to moths at night. She remembered the sound of rain more than the voices of the people who came and went. She wasn’t the kind of child who ran up to visitors with painted smiles and perfect manners. She stayed quiet. Observing. Feeling too much and saying too little. And maybe that was the problem. She tucked a loose curl behind her ear and leaned her forehead against the window. Outside, the world kept moving. Cars passed. Clouds drifted. People chose. But never her. At least not yet.

—A lady and her quill, Life at St. Stephen's Orphanage.

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

"I wanted to be loved so desperately that my fingers shook with it, I am not beautiful but I could be" ― Emily Palermo

Dear Milena, I wish the world were ending tomorrow. Then I could take the next train, arrive at your doorstep in Vienna, and say: “Come with me, Milena. We are going to love each other without scruples or fear or restraint. Because the world is ending tomorrow”. Perhaps we don’t love unreasonably because we think we have time, or have to reckon with time. But what if we don’t have time? Or what if time, as we know it, is irrelevant? Ah, if only the world were ending tomorrow. We could help each other very much.

— Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena

Beauty is terror, whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it. -The Secret History