|—||John Irving, A Prayer for Owen Meany (via quotes-shape-us)|
When someone you love dies, and you’re not expecting it, you don’t lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time—the way the mail stops coming, and her scent fades from the pillows and even from the clothes in her closet and drawers. Gradually, you accumulate the parts of her that are gone. Just when the day comes—when there’s a particular missing part that overwhelms you with the feeling that she’s gone, forever—there comes another day, and another specifically missing part.
What I really like to learn how to do is to build sentences that are equal to mental states.
This all looks sooooo good
God damn. Yes.
“Today, after a 72 hour shift at the fire station, a woman ran up to me at the grocery store and gave me a hug. When I tensed up, she realized I didn’t recognize her. She let go with tears of joy in her eyes and the most sincere smile and said, “On 9-11-2001, you carried me out of the World Trade Center.”
This is worth a reblog.
I don’t care who you are or what kind of blog you have. This should always be reblogged.