allie, 17.
seattle. against me. sweet tea. reading. m83. edward norton. the ocean. boxer rebellion. xbox. sophia bush. rainbow 6. ferries. the wombats. easy street records.
washington. ♥

 

Troll Hunter? That sounds like a movie about Bremerton.

Boyfriend’s dad

thatswhatimeant:

Ryan Gosling and the Director of ‘Drive’ Nicolas Winding Refn. (x)

These two are just ridiculous people. 

We are masters of the unsaid words, but slaves of those we let slip out.

Winston Churchill  (via creatingaquietmind, brokenmachine) (via teachingliteracy)

Memory is not enough…
I do not recollect. What I am
is alive in me because of you. I do not reinvent you
at sadly cooled-off places you have left behind.
Even your absence is filled
with your warmth and is more real
than your not-existing. Longing often meanders
into vagueness. Why should I throw myself away
when something in you may be
touching me, very lightly, like moonlight
on a window seat.

Rainer Maria Rilke, To Lou Andreas-Salomé, Duino, late autumn, 1911 (in A Year with Rilke)

(Source: growing-orbits)

That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you’re not lonely and isolated from anyone.

F. Scott Fitzgerald (via cherishwhatyouhave)

(Source: saddest-summer)

He loved her, of course, but better than that, he chose her, day after day. Choice: that was the thing.

Sherman Alexie, The Toughest Indian In the World (via daisyslight)

I who did not die, who am still living,
still lying in the backseat behind all my questions,
clenching and opening one small hand.

Naomi Shihab Nye, from “Making a Fist” (adapted from sharingpoetry)

[He grabbed her by the hand and held on tight, despite that gleam in her honey-brown eyes that promised him more pain.] He held on.

Carol O’Connell, Bone by Bone (thank you, irazhanesilver)

(Source: the-final-sentence)

[But I know there are rules that cannot be broken.
Perhaps a name was changed.
A small mistake.] Perhaps
a woman I do not know
is facing the day with the heavy heart
that, by all rights, should have been mine.

In November by Lisel Mueller (via the-final-sentence)