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“And when I asked you how you’d been, I meant I missed you more than I’ve ever missed anything before.”
Iain Thomas, I Wrote This For You (via hurtinq)
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Nevermind our plan-making, we'll start living.
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Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them! They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything so real as words?
Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray (via theblackquill)
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