— 27 September
Kingdom and a King - Robbie Seay Band
[ 3720 ]
— 27 September
"I dream. Sometimes I think that’s the only right thing to do."
— Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart
[ 98 ]
— 27 September
[ 470 ]
— 12 September
“The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real … for a moment at least … that long magic moment before we wake.
Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?
We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.
They can keep their heaven. When I die, I’d sooner go to middle Earth.”"
[ 4 ]
— 04 September
I saw this beautiful classic 66’ Chevy Impala at the one, random, small Oklahoma town diner my family stopped at, on our mini Sunday roadtrip.
She was a gorgeous car.
[ 3 ]
— 27 August
"…like, I don’t like my job, I don’t like this town, I don’t like my clothes, I don’t like my own last name. I don’t know how else to explain it, except that it feels like I should be doing something else. It’s just something in my blood."
— Sam Winchester, It’s a Terrible Life (via saramichaels)
[ 14 ]
— 13 August
“In books, the truth makes everything good and fine. The good prevail. The wicked are punished. There is happiness. But it’s not like that really, is it?”
“No,” I say. “I suppose it only makes everything known.”
We lean our heads back against the tree and look up at the puffy, white clouds.
“Why bother with it at all then?” Ann says.
“Because you can’t keep up the illusion forever,” I say. “No one has that much magic.”
For a long while, we sit, saying nothing. No one attempts to hold hands or tell a merry joke, to talk of what has happened or what is to come. We simply sit, our backs to the tree, our shoulders grazing on another. It is the lightest of touches and yet it’s enough to weight me to the earth.
And for a moment, I understand that I have friends on this lonely path, that sometimes your place is not something you find, but something you have when you need it.
- Gemma, Ann and Felicity at Pippa’s grave - Rebel Angels