Desire is a killing machine.

I am deeply interested in everything, ever.

Dec 30
“But from there on, the pen lay dead in his cramped fingers. It was as if all the letters of the alphabet, all the combination of letters into words, all the infinite possibilities of handwritten language had ceased to exist.” Richard Yates, Out With the Old in Eleven Kinds of Loneliness (via distantheartbeats)
Posted at 2:38 PM 7 notes
Source: distantheartbeats

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