Nobody actually looks like what they really are on the inside. You don’t. I don’t. People are much more complicated than that. It’s true of everybody.
Neil Gaiman, “The Ocean at the End of the Lane” (via quoted-books)
Missing her kept him awake more than the coffee.
John Green, An Abundance of Katherines (via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)

(Source: ridingsidesaddle, via coralane)

(Source: go-exxplore, via wild-nirvana)

(Source: desenharts, via sunshinemeow)

Work was murder

Work was murder

amytheinternethobbit:

tyleroakley:

image

accurate gif is accurate.

(Source: iraffiruse, via c0untyour-blessings)

I’m not saying that at some point love isn’t staying up until 2am phone calls or stealing kisses when you least expect it, or instantly falling for each other’s favorite songs because it is, or at least that’s what the lead up to it feels like, but real love, is so much more. It’s going out at 12am to get something to eat for your wife who can’t get out of bed, it’s listening to them as they explode with vulnerability on your living room couch talking about how they were only so young when their parents passed on. it’s remembering how someone likes their coffee in the morning without asking—without ever asking, it’s visiting someone in the hospital knowing the last thing you want to do is see them in that condition, it’s wanting to be with that person despite everything, the future, the past, and everything in between, it’s the intimate things that you don’t even realize involve such intimacy, but they do, in secret, like the pinky promises you two made behind your back, to love one another for always, in the time you thought you were in love, when you were actually just on your way to it.
Lawyers, doctors, plumbers, they made all the money. Writers? Writers starved. Writers suicided. Writers went mad. ~ Charles Chubowski.