little tart

alastair

But even so, every now and then I would feel a violent stab of loneliness. The very water I drink, the very air I breathe, would feel like long, sharp needles. The pages of a book in my hands would take on the threatening metallic gleam of razor blades. I could hear the roots of loneliness creeping through me when the world was hushed at four o’clock in the morning.

—Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle (via souls-entwined)

(Source: splitterherzen, via girlnah)

frackoviak:

MOSCHINO SPRING 2003 | RIE RASMUSSEN