At 19, I read a sentence that re-terraformed my head: “The level of matter in the universe has been constant since the Big Bang.”
In all the aeons we have lost nothing, we have gained nothing - not a speck, not a grain, not a breath. The universe is simply a sealed, twisting kaleidoscope that has reordered itself a trillion trillion trillion times over.
Each baby, then, is a unique collision - a cocktail, a remix - of all that has come before: made from molecules of Napoleon and stardust and comets and whale tooth; colloidal mercury and Cleopatra’s breath: and with the same darkness that is between the stars between, and inside, our own atoms.
When you know this, you suddenly see the crowded top deck of the bus, in the rain, as a miracle: this collection of people is by way of a starburst constellation. Families are bright, irregular-shaped nebulae. Finding a person you love is like galaxies colliding. We are all peculiar, unrepeatable, perambulating micro-universes - we have never been before and we will never be again. Oh God, the sheer exuberant, unlikely face of our existences. The honour of being alive. They will never be able to make you again. Don’t you dare waste a second of it thinking something better will happen when it ends. Don’t you dare

Caitlin Moran (via artvevo)
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Careful, honey, it’s loaded,” he said, reentering the bedroom.

Her back rested against the headboard. “This for your wife?”

“No. Too chancy. I’m hiring a professional.”

“How about me?”

He smirked. “Cute. But who’d be dumb enough to hire a lady hit man?”

She wet her lips, sighting along the barrel.

“Your wife.

"Bedtime Story", Jeffrey Whitmore (via talesofnorth)
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When God created his angels he did not mean
to make divinely cruel urban monsters who
stalk back alleys and lurk in the shadows.

Michael breathes out smog and a Bowie knife
is clutched in his hand. He uses it for fun.
Raphael’s grin glints gold in the amber lighting:
angels live for war.

They all move as a unit. In Heaven
they were called a garrison.
Here, they are a gang.

On the other side of town is Lucifer,
pressing hasty kisses on Lillith’s neck in a
dirty restroom. Her lipstick is sin-red and smudged.

Hell is a dusty dive bar, the Throne
a battered bar stool and Lucifer reigns triumphant.
He rules the south side and tomorrow he will
battle Michael tooth and nail for the west.

God gave his angels form
and they did the rest.

coleridges (via machiavels)
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cassandraoftroy:

notthelittlesthobo:

I love the Pushing Daisies universe because it’s this beautiful little bright world where people live in windmills and keep bees and everyone’s jobs are things like lighthouse keeping, illusionists, and scratch-and-sniff book authors. But it’s teeming with cold-blooded murder.

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