Going back to a book is like returning to the cities we believe to be our own, but which, in reality, we've forgotten and been forgotten by.
Anyone who knows me knows that I can't resist a good period drama, especially one with a fun female lead. Phryne (that's pronounced fran-ee) Fisher, slutty lady detective (I think that's her official title) is probably my favorite, and I asked my cousin if she knew where it was filmed within an hour of walking out of the Melbourne airport.
It's not as if our lives are divided simply into light and dark. There's shadowy middle ground.
I distinctly remember connecting to this line in The Great Gatsby, but it's really just an excuse for the basic af fall photos. Don't worry, no pumpkin spice lattes.
Nothing makes you realize the weird quirks of your own culture quite like a country where you all speak the same language, yet somehow don't.
Gucci Gucci, Louis Louis, Fendi Fendi Prada, basic bitches wear that shit so I don't even bother (also I can't afford it whoops)
Bright walls, wheatpastes, book installations--oh my!
How can we rank bookstores? By aesthetics? Coziness? Selection? Notoriety? The cuteness and cuddliness of the live-in cats?
“Ser uno mismo es, siempre, llegar a ser ese otro que somos y que llevamos escondido en nuestro interior, más que nada como promesa o posibilidad de ser.”
When summer vacation feels like a dream you read about in a poem.