the odds are never in our favour
(Source: roryisawinchester)
Ni mis besos serían hoy los de los dos…
La guitarra.
Empieza el llanto de la guitarra.
Se rompen las copas de la madrugada.
Empieza el llanto de la guitarra.
Es inútil callarla.
Llora monótona como llora el agua,
como llora el viento sobre la nevada.
Es imposible callarla.
Llora por cosas lejanas.
Arena del Sur caliente
que pide camelias blancas.
Llora flecha sin blanco,
la tarde sin mañana,
y el primer pájaro muerto
sobre la rama.
¡Oh guitarra!
Corazón malherido
por cinco espadas.
Federico García Lorca.
(Source: cameronchristopher)
Quand ils ont dormi ensemble pour la première fois, il s’est endormi la main posée sur sa poitrine.
Maintenant il sents son coeur battre dans sa paume, et chaque pulsation le rapproche de lui.
I’ve been crying throughout the last 50 pages of The Time Traveler’s Wife.
God it’s AGES since this last happened to me. It’s beautiful.
Me vuelvo a perder entre la inmensidad de las páginas. Soy feliz.
Stories, stories… What’s a story? When you were in high school did you learn about the Civil War? (Yeah, of course.)How? Did you per chance read avout it in a book? How is that less real than any other book?”
History books are based on history.
Story books are based on what? Imagination? Where does that come from? It has to come from somewhere. You know what the issues is with this world? Everyone wants some magical solution to their problem and everyone refuses to believe in magic.”
(“Heres the thing J, this is it. This is the real world.”)
A real world. How arrogant are you to think yours is the only one? There infinite more. You have to open your mind. They touch one another, pressing up in a long line of lands, each just as real as the last. All have their own rules. Some have magic, some don’t. And some need magic. Like this one.
Se acabó el dejar cosas a medias.
