YOU SOLD YOUR SOUL FOR MAGIC BEANS.

    pony

i'm esther from spain but scouser at heart. i like music, books and people who have red cheeks.

Khaled Juma, a Palestinian poet from Gaza.  (via nowinexile)

(via musaafer)

Oh rascal children of Gaza. You who constantly disturbed me with your screams under my window. You who filled every morning with rush and chaos. You who broke my vase and stole the lonely flower on my balcony. Come back, and scream as you want and break all the vases. Steal all the flowers. Come back..Just come back..

T. S. Eliot (via maxkirin)

(via lily-cats)

The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.

Frances Ha (2012)

(Source: larmoyante, via lily-cats)

It’s that thing when you’re with someone and you love them and they know it and they love you and you know it but it’s a party and you’re both talking to other people and you’re laughing and shining and you look across the room and catch each other’s eyes. But not because you’re possessive, or it’s precisely sexual, but because that is your person in this life and it’s funny and sad but only because this life will end and it’s this secret world that exists right there. In public. Unnoticed. That no one else knows about. It’s sort of like how they say that other dimensions exist all around us but we don’t have the ability to perceive them. That’s what I want out of a relationship. Or just life, I guess.
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