Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.
―
Anaïs Nin (via larmoyante)
―
Anaïs Nin (via larmoyante)
I just want to spend the day nude, drinking tea and reading Bukowski.
