(via 50shadesofdaddyissues)
“I exist. It’s sweet, so sweet, so slow. And light: you’d think it floated all by itself. It stirs. It brushes by me, melts and vanishes. Gently, gently. There is bubbling water in my throat, it caresses me and now it comes up again into my mouth. For ever I shall have a little pool of whitish water in my mouth - lying low - grazing my tongue. And this pool is still me. And the tongue. And the throat is me.”
— Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea
(Source: ovaire)
via bilmas: "i am starting a series of philosophical conversations with my dog who actually talks."
| me: | amy is not coming home |
| sophie: | she loves me though |
| me: | there is a picture of her with another dog |
| sophie: | so? |
| me: | she says the dog is her boyfriend |
| sophie: | lol |
| me: | there is a picture of her with a cat. or near a cat. it's a picture of a cat |
| sophie: | grrrrrr |
| me: | there's a picture in my head of amy with a boy |
| sophie: | so? |
| me: | i mean a man. a grownup. |
| sophie: | so? |
| me: | my brain is always on. you can't use the internet, anyway. |
| sophie: | oh. |
