“I stumbled and ran, choking with horror; some unholy curiosity made me look over my shoulder, and I saw her waving … and as she waved, her fingers fell off and dropped to the ground like shooting stars.”—Leonora Carrington, White Rabbits (via frenchtwist)
Have you ever read a book, perhaps years ago, which won’t leave your memory somehow? A book that touched you on such a level that you feel it has connections to the moon, the stars, to forever? And you move forward, searching to replicate the experience, the sensations which this particular book inspired, only to find that nothing quite lives up to that one single experience. It doesn’t really matter what the book was, or who wrote it, it is something peculiarly personal, something that you can’t explain.