Three o’clock in the morning. The soft April night is looking at my windows and caressingly winking at me with its stars. I can’t sleep, I am so happy. Anton Chekhov, About Love and Other Stories (via larmoyante)

(via englishmajorinrepair)

I think of you so often you have no idea. James Joyce, Ulysses  (via versteur)

(Source: observando, via agreattperhaps)

husshed:

drug-child:

most-dope-princess:

sexploiting:

this is what I want. Us, going on a road trip, sleeping in our car and cheap motels, eating cereal for dinner and ihop for breakfast and granola bars for lunch. Fighting over the radio stations and talking about old memories of when we were young and when we first met and how we fell in love


i need more road trips 

ugggghh want so so bad
I’m a word freak. I like words. I’ve always compared writing to music. That’s the way I feel about good paragraphs. When it really works, it’s like music. Hunter S. Thompson (via raulrants)

(via weakerthanthis)

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