Lanvin

“There must be some unwritten rule that people who know of and partake in the kinky stuff can be kinky and flirtatious around each other. But to the rest of us, they have to modify their behavior. Like we’re the muggles and they’re the wizards.”
― Sara Cate, Praise

“But there’s this way he drums his fingers on the table. Not even like really drumming. More like in-way between drumming and like this scratching, picking, the way you see somebody picking at dead skin. And without any kind of rhythm, see, constant and never-stopping but with no kind of rhythm you could grab onto and follow and stand. Totally like whacked, insane. Like the kind of sounds you can imagine a girl hears in her head right before she kills her whole family because somebody took the last bit of peanut butter or something. You know what I’m saying? The sound of a fucking mind coming apart. You know what I’m saying? So yeah, yes, OK, the short answer is when he wouldn’t quit with the drumming at supper I sort of poked him with my fork. Sort of. I could see how maybe somebody could have thought I sort of stabbed him. I offered to get the fork out, though. Let me just say I’m ready to make amends at like anytime. For my part in it. I’m owning my part in it is what I’m saying. Can I ask am I going to get Restricted for this? Cause I have this Overnight tomorrow that Gene he approved already in the Overnight Log. If you want to look. But I’m not trying to get out of owning my part of the, like, occurrence. If my Higher Power who I choose to call God works through you saying I’ve got some kind of a punishment due, I won’t try to get out of a punishment. If I’ve got one due. I just wanted to ask. Did I mention I’m grateful to be here?”
― David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

“Life is too short to be lived badly.”
― Marjane Satrapi, Persepolis 2: The Story of a Return

“There sounded in his heart a solemn music. It filled the earth,
the air, the universe; it was not loud, but it was omnipresent, and
it spoke to him of death and darkness, and of the focal march of
all who lived or had lived, converging on a plain. The world was
filled with silent marching men: no word was spoken, but in the
heart of each there was a common knowledge, the word that all men
knew and had forgotten, the lost key opening the prison gates, the
lane-end into heaven, and as the music soared and filled him, he
cried: "I will remember. When I come to the place, I shall know.”
― Thomas Wolfe, Look Homeward, Angel