He picked up a pebble
and threw it into the sea.

And another, and another.
He couldn’t stop.

He wasn’t trying to fill the sea.
He wasn’t trying to empty the beach.

He was just throwing…

Norman MacCaig, “Small boy,” from The Poems of Norman MacCaig (via austinkleon)
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This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

T.S. Eliot (via observando)
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The Girl

City and Colour
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I want something else. I’m not even sure what to call it anymore except I know it feels roomy and it’s drenched in sunlight and it’s weightless and I know it’s not cheap. It’s probably not even real.

Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves (via larmoyante)
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Books are finite, sexual encounters are finite, but the desire to read and to fuck is infinite; it surpasses our own deaths, our fears, our hopes for peace.

Roberto Bolaño (via observando)
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