You can identify the smell of all of your friends’ houses, but you don’t know the smell of your own home.
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*quietly* Hey. Don’t ever call me a clown again. *Step to block exit* Do you understand me?
*nods*
Travis is a clown. You can call me a joker or a fool, but I am no clown.
*eyes down, nods*
One last piece of advice, *I lean in close and whisper* Don’t take what I say too seriously.
A man that makes his bed in the snow rarely wakes from his slumber.
Jon Snow noooo
Lol. Every loyalty post kills me, every, single time, without fail.
*sips tea*
But hey, none of my business.
*sips tea*
The fact that you cannot figure out what the point of something is is not evidence of its pointlessness.
Address me, “Your Majesty”
“A book is made from a tree. It is an assemblage of flat, flexible parts (still called “leaves”) imprinted with dark pigmented squiggles. One glance at it and you hear the voice of another person, perhaps someone dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, the author is speaking, clearly and silently, inside your head, directly to you. Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people, citizens of distant epochs, who never knew one another. Books break the shackles of time ? proof that humans can work magic.”
— Carl Sagan (via quotemadness)
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