She is rotting quietly under her skirts with a melancholy smile, like the odour of violets given off by a decomposing body.  La Nausée, Jean-Paul Sartre (via funeraryfaerie)

I know we make wishes on stars when we’ve run out of names to cry and embody trees just to feel something call us home. We hold the wind in fists of reasons we fear becoming, and fold promises into the letters behind eyes we closed before daylight had a name. Love wrote hope across …