I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny, they are small, and the fountain is in France where you wrote me that last letter and I answered and never heard from you again.
→ May 2012 "It didn’t matter in the end how old they had been, or that they were girls, but only that we had loved them, and that they hadn’t heard us calling, still do not hear us, up here in the tree house with our thinning hair and soft bellies, calling them out of those rooms where they went to be alone for all time, alone in suicide, which is deeper than death, and where we will never find the pieces to put them back together."
— Jeffrey Eugenides, The Virgin Suicides (via helplesslyamazed)