“Sometimes in late summer I won’t touch anything, not the flowers, not the blackberries brimming in the thickets; I won’t drink from the pond; I won’t name the birds or the trees; I won’t whisper my own name. One morning the fox came down the hill, glittering and confident, and didn’t see me—and I thought: so this is the world. I’m not in it. It is beautiful.”— Mary Oliver, “October” (excerpt)
anyone else just decaying
Yeah a single “I’m sorry” isn’t going to fix the way you ripped my heart out of my chest and then laughed at the blood on your hands
The closing lines of The Great Gatsby, perhaps the most enigmatic in American literature, handwritten by F. Scott Fitzgerald himself.
Reblog if you talk to yourself and small animals