(Source: beautifulurself, via theideasoflove)
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When you sleep on your side, I like to map the constellations between your beauty marks freckles pimples, the minuscule mountains that sprinkle your back. I like the tufts of hair you forgot to shave and the way you smell when you haven’t showered in a while; I like the sleep left in your eyes.
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Of course anyone who truly loves books buys more of them than he or she can hope to read in one fleeting lifetime. A good book, resting unopened in its slot on a shelf, full of majestic potentiality, is the most comforting sort of intellectual wallpaper.
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“I was born in Brooklyn, but I never lived there. All my life, however, I’ve been regaled with stories of the glory that was pre-war Brooklyn, and since these tales seemed to have very little to do with my own experience of the place, the Brooklyn of that era has always appeared to me as something of an enchanted isle—a fiction, really. Setting a story there—not in the literal, geographical Brooklyn but in the one of memory, of romanticized recollection—is my way of visiting a place that I suspect never really existed.”
Alice McDermott, interviewed in The New Yorker about her short story “Someone.”
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The tangles in some areas of the brain were getting to be so thick it was like trying to kick a soccer ball through a chain-link fence.
Ultimately, many of the neurons would die, and the brain would begin to shrink. Because the brain is highly specialized, the strangulation of each clump of neurons would restrict a very specific function — the ability to convert recent events into reliable memories, for example, or the ability to recall specific words, or to consider basic math problems. Or, eventually, to speak at all, or recognize a loved one. Or to walk or swallow or breathe.
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We’re all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn’t. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing.
