Life's a cookies box.

 "Hai presente quelle scatole di latta con i biscotti assortiti? Ci sono sempre quelli che ti piacciono e quelli che no. Quando cominci a prendere subito tutti quelli buoni, poi rimangono solo quelli che non ti piacciono. È quello che penso sempre io nei momenti di crisi. Meglio che mi tolgo questi cattivi di mezzo, poi tutto andrà bene. Perciò la vita è una scatola di biscotti."

Haruki Murakami, Norvegian Wood

.

Non funziona niente non funziona mai niente c'è qualcosa dentro di me che continua a uccidermi.

Tourniquet.

I tried to kill the pain

but only brought more 

I lay dying 

And I'm pouring crimson regret and betrayal 

I'm dying, praying, bleeding and screaming 

Am i too lost to be saved?

Am i too lost? 
...
(Do you remember me? 
Lost for so long 
Will you be on the other side, or will you forget me? 
I'm dying, praying, bleeding and screaming 
Am I too lost to be saved ?



Am I too lost? )

White Oleander.

Find someone who tremble for your touch, someone whose fingers are a poem.

Janet Fitch, White Oleander

Passenger seat.

November.

November — with uncanny witchery in its changed trees. With murky red sunsets flaming in smoky crimson behind the westering hills. With dear days when the austere woods were beautiful and gracious in a dignified serenity of folded hands and closed eyes — days full of fine, pale sunshine that sifted through the late, leafless gold of the juniper-trees and glimmered among the grey beeches, lighting up evergreen banks of moss and washing the colonnades of the pines. Days with a high-sprung sky of flawless turquoise. Days when an exquisite melancholy seemed to hang over the landscape and dream about the lake. But days, too, of the wild blackness of great autumn storms, followed by dank, wet, streaming nights when there was witch-laughter in the pines and fitful moans among the mainland trees.

The Blue Castle, L. M. Montgomery