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“It is perhaps sad books that best console us when we are sad, and to lonely service stations that we should drive when there is no one for us to hold or love.
— Alain de Botton, The Art of Travel (via durianquotes)
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giveitawhirl:

Why don’t the seats in the trains near me face the windows!?!?! I’ve always strained my neck looking to the side during my rides. This is glorious.
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Stations of Tokyo
傍惚れ
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You die at seventeen
in your first love’s arms
and find it cruel that
in this world, Shakespeare
takes Juliet first.

You die at seventeen
and learn that there is no
epilogue after page 11,305
because there are no words
to be said from the mute.

You die at seventeen
and involuntarily fill your lungs
with tight packed dirt until
you are no longer breathing
air but earth.

You die at seventeen
and your roots grow from both
ends and when you start
to rot at the core, they cut
you back down to the stem.

You die at seventeen
because Shakespeare takes
Juliet first, so you plant
your own seeds and labor
yourself into birth.

— silver phoenix // S.M.
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thm