|—||Nelson Mandela (via justinpoole)|
|—||Pope Francis (via sunyoungwrites)|
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.
November 19, 1863
|—||Lemony Snicket (via amandaonwriting)|
Late night lights in New York City. A thousand voices in a hundred languages. Constant motion and intense passion.
She can smell it on the perfume of the monsters that surround her in this dark part of the big city dream. Humid oppression clinging to her like a 200 pound Mexican maids blouse as she scrubs the kitchen floor of an air conditioner-less apartment in August.
Its another soulless party where shes just a faceless girl in a rented dress with meaningless emotions who won’t exist in the real world after tonight. She rummages through her purse looking for the pack of cigarettes she’s been keeping on hand for emergency situations. She pulls one out and waves off seven potential flames before she has a chance to pull out her own.
A match flares and she leans towards it like a moth pulled in by the aroma. She allows him to light her up. She knows she will regret this decision in the morning. But as for now all she can see is blue and its staring right through her body. She feels the betrayal travel up her veins and into her lungs. She breathes in the poison and lets intoxication prevail.
With every drink a business card and behind every smile a story no one will remember by morning. Just play the politics if you want to get ahead. And if you’re not ahead then you’re behind and everybody knows this town is where losers go to die. Its not the nice guy who finishes last in this town. Its the one with the least connections. So she digs in deep and does her best not to blow her cover. Its all on table tonight.
In this world you’ve gotta fake it until you make it.
|—||Carlos Ruiz Zafon (via frostnymph)|
|—||Albert Camus, The Sea Close By (via lovedbyapollo)|
Well then I shall be out of a job
for it is the duty of the poet
of the artist and of the musician
To mend the damage that love has done
|—||Benjamin Franklin (via story-dj)|
|—||Plato (via never-fangirled-till-sherlock)|