Writers aren’t people exactly. Or, if they’re any good, they’re a whole lot of people trying so hard to be one person.


vintage illustration, constellations of the northern hemisphere

You must be broken and worn out by waiting.


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For there is nothing heavier than compassion. Not even one’s own pain weighs so heavily as the pain one feels with someone, for someone, a pain intensified by the imagination and prolonged by a hundred echoes.

— Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being (via mirroir)