So he was deserted. The whole world was clamouring: Kill yourself, kill yourself, for our sakes. But why should he kill himself for their sakes? Food was pleasant; the sun hot; and this killing oneself, how does one set about it, with a table knife, uglily, with floods of blood, - by sucking a gaspipe? He was too weak; he could scarcely raise his hand. Besides, now that he was quite alone, condemned, deserted, as those who are about to die are alone, there was a luxury in it, an isolation full of sublimity; a freedom which the attached can never know. — Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf
As a cloud crosses the sun, silence falls on London; and falls on the mind. Effort ceases. Time flaps on the mast. There we stop; there we stand. Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame. Where there is nothing, Peter Walsh said to himself; feeling hollowed out, utterly empty within. Clarissa refused me, he thought. He stood there thinking, Clarissa refused me. — Mrs. Dalloway, Virginia Woolf
here: let’s read together, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky
this is beautiful prom hair (if i were that brave in high school) or wedding hair (if i weren’t a harpy)
I like the way hands look like when they’re holding eachother, the fingers laced kind, not the noncommital grab. It looks like love or something i guess. or something.
outta my way, got elephant shit to do