And then I realised: You are not here, you are not real…
anymore.
(via consultingcumberbitch)
So you’re in a band where sometimes you’re singing?
(via fuckyeahgarybarlow)
Getting off tumblr
(via dulce-desiderio)
Think I might start trying this.
(via cumberchameleon)
… he wondered whether there was any love between human beings that did not rest upon some sort of self-delusion; he wished he could just get up and walk out before it happened, but he couldn’t. He worried, in a quite paternal way, about Guillam, and wondered how he would take the late strains of growing up.
(via dangling-thpider)
You have to remember.
And now I’m having bad bad thoughts of Sherlock coming back after 3 years and finding John totally consumed by alcohol and gloom
(via asitverymuchwere)
Ten and his glasses
(via sofisoph)
“Tchaikovsky today, huh?”
“Violin Concerto, D-Major. One of your favourites.”
“You’re usually playing Bach.”
“I felt a change in pace wouldn’t disrupt the continuum.”
“It doesn’t really matter.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Because you’re not playing at all.”
The song stops; the sociopath stills.
John blinks, and the ghost is gone without a trace; the song over without a flourish. Silence suddenly settles in the flat as though it had been waiting all along. He feels inconsolably lost without the mirage and the specter’s song.
After all, a fake, he sadly supposes, is better than nothing at all.
(via musingsdeme)