Oh the glory when you ran outside with your shirt tucked in and your shoes untied and you told me not to follow you.
Certain kinds of knowledge rob people of their sleep.
Haruki Murakami1Q84  (via hoodniggashit)
willigula:

Detail from a map of Seattle by the Kroll Map Company, 1925

willigula:

Detail from a map of Seattle by the Kroll Map Company, 1925

If you died it would be like my bones had been removed.
No one would know why, but I would collapse.
Sarah Kane, Crave (via lifeinpoetry)
Grief is not linear. People kept telling me that once this happened or that passed, everything would be better. Some people gave me one year to grieve. They saw grief as a straight line, with a beginning, middle, and end. But it is not linear. It is disjointed. One day you are acting almost like a normal person. You maybe even manage to take a shower. Your clothes match. You think the autumn leaves look pretty, or enjoy the sound of snow crunching under your feet. Then a song, a glimpse of something, or maybe even nothing sends you back into the hole of grief. It is not one step forward, two steps back. It is a jumble. It is hours that are all right, and weeks that aren’t. Or it is good days and bad days. Or it is the weight of sadness making you look different to others and nothing helps.
Ann Hood, Comfort; A Journey Through Grief (via theprimroseproject)
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