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a motley collection of my ludicrous thoughts

@gfinkler / gfinkler.tumblr.com

I tumble occasionally.
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If writers wrote as carelessly as some people talk, then djsbwaks nsjfb[jdk]ndjs
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reblogged
I had my mind made up about intimacy back when I used to take sugar in my coffee. Sure, I looked for it. I think we all look for it when we’re young. I thought I could find it at the bottom of a cheap keg lit up by headlights and fireflies. We all did, at some point living in a town nestled in-between cornfields and everyone-knows-everyone gossip. We looked for it in deafening music and dance floors; in high heels and higher heads. It’s not found in bar stools, small talk, perfectly curled hair and forced laughter.
I started taking my coffee bitter and like everything else, I found intimacy when I stopped looking for it. I found it in mornings. Blurred vision and a headache, pre-caffeine. Puffy eyes and daylight pouring through dark curtains. Intimacy is found when your head is still on the pillow and something funny is said and even though you haven’t had your coffee yet and you’re trying not to laugh, you do. That’s where it’s inevitably found, in uninhibited morning laughter.
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She may have looked normal on the outside, but once you’d seen her handwriting you knew she was deliciously complicated inside.

Jeffrey Eugenides, The Marriage Plot (via feellng)

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'In the beginning of their relationship, both proceeded as if they had entered a very dark room and were sliding their hands hesitantly up and down all the walls, feeling for a light switch while at the same time afraid that they might touch something sharp or dangerous. But from the minute they met, there was absolutely no game playing between them because they had had enough of that in their lives. They were eager to get to the heart of this matter. Both wanted to reach the point as soon as possible where sharing silence was just as good as sharing their life stories.

Jonathan Carroll  (via thatkindofwoman)

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There are two questions a man must ask himself: The first is Where am I going? and the second is Who will go with me? If you ever get these questions in the wrong order you are in trouble.
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The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them — words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a tellar but for want of an understanding ear.

Stephen King, Different Seasons (via disbar)

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