April is the cruelest month, breeding
lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
memory and desire, stirring
dull roots with spring rain.
T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land  

(via sheersimplicities)


(via hey-fellas)


(via humrahee)


John Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men

John Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men

(via the-sun-also--rises)


(via crossbeams)



Of course I’ll hurt you. Of course you’ll hurt me. Of course we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. To become spring, means accepting the risk of winter. To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence.
The Little Prince  (via preppyhippietx)

(via preppyhippietx)



Timshel
Mumford & Sons
Sigh No More

 

but I can’t move the mountains for you.