Make it spring.
— Margaret Atwood, from “February” (via words-in-lines)
(via the-final-sentence)
But in the end, back she comes. There’s no use resisting. She goes to him for amnesia, for oblivion. She renders herself up, is blotted out; enters the darkness of her own body, forgets her name. Immolation is what she wants, however briefly. To exist without boundaries.
— Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin (via ephemerals)
(via kathleenjoy)
