The world has found me out. It has discovered my burrow beneath the tool shed, the half-finished lifeboat cannibalized from the viscera of dead helicopters. The world is busy destroying my means of escape. Then it will come back for me.
Tag: lit quotes
The world has found me out. It has discovered my burrow beneath the tool shed, the half-finished lifeboat cannibalized from the viscera of dead helicopters. The world is busy destroying my means of escape. Then it will come back for me.
Lidor looks at me like I’m some kind of a superhero. There’s nothing greater than to have your kid look at you that way. It’s better than a vacation in Thailand. Better than a blow job. Better than punching someone who has it coming.
Lidor looks at me like I’m some kind of a superhero. There’s nothing greater than to have your kid look at you that way. It’s better than a vacation in Thailand. Better than a blow job. Better than punching someone who has it coming.
There was a priest, and a punto band, and the beach, and the stars, and the northern wind, and everything about that night was emblematic of how they hoped to shape the years. Now they would divorce.
There was a priest, and a punto band, and the beach, and the stars, and the northern wind, and everything about that night was emblematic of how they hoped to shape the years. Now they would divorce.
I had always found the organ-playing at St. Barnabé highly interesting. Learned and scientific it was, too much so for my small knowledge, but expressing a vivid if cold intelligence.
“In the Court of the Dragon” by Robert W. Chambers (1895)
I had always found the organ-playing at St. Barnabé highly interesting. Learned and scientific it was, too much so for my small knowledge, but expressing a vivid if cold intelligence.
“In the Court of the Dragon” by Robert W. Chambers (1895)
He wished it were May. He’d always enjoyed writing about May, with its confidence of daylight, the inviting lassitude of the sea… . But it was not May. It was twelve days before Christmas, and the daylight looked no more certain of what it was doing than he was.
He wished it were May. He’d always enjoyed writing about May, with its confidence of daylight, the inviting lassitude of the sea… . But it was not May. It was twelve days before Christmas, and the daylight looked no more certain of what it was doing than he was.