What a weary time those years were — to have the desire and the need to live but not the ability.
—Charles Bukowski, Ham on Rye (via larmoyante)
The city was always my garden, the people there like flowers, the traffic like a river, the lights of the buildings shining as if they were a hundred white tears.
—Alice Hoffman, Green Heart (via larmoyante)
Maybe I was destined to forever fall in love with people I couldn’t have. Maybe there’s a whole assortment of impossible people waiting for me to find them. Waiting to make me feel the same impossibility over and over again.
— Carol Rifka Brunt, Tell the Wolves I’m Home (via larmoyante)