My mamma, she loves you.

No matter what she says it's true.
I know that she hurts you,

but remember I love you too.

I ran away today, ran from the noise, ran away.
Don't wanna go back to that place,

but don't have no choice, no way.
It ain't easy growin up in World War III,
never knowin what love could be, well I've seen
I don't want love to destroy me

like it did my family.

Can we work it out? Can we be a family?
I promise I'll be better, mommy I'll do anything.
Can we work it out? Can we be a family?
I promise I'll be better, daddy please don't leave.

In our family portrait, we look pretty happy,
let's play pretend, let's act like it comes naturally.

So.. P!nk is killing me.

Next to your heartbeat where I should be,

keep it deep within your soul.

And if you hurt me

well, that's okay baby, only words bleed.

Inside these pages you just hold me,

and I won’t ever let you go.

When I'm away, I will remember how you kissed me

under the lamppost back on Sixth street,

hearing you whisper through the phone:

"Wait for me to come home."

Photograph, Ed Sheeran.
Cada día estoy más segura de que este tipo intenta matarme con sus canciones.

Vanessa Ives: Control.
Dorian Gray: Yes. What if you were to abandon this?
Vanessa Ives: I couldn't.
Dorian Gray: Why?
Vanessa Ives: There are things within our soul that can never be unleashed.
Dorian Gray: What would happen if they were?
Vanessa Ives: They would consume us, we would cease to be and another would exist in our place, without control. Without limits.

I am not the first person you loved. You are not the first person I looked at with a mouthful of "forevers". We have both known loss like the sharp edges of a knife. We have both lived with lips more scar tissue than skin. Our love came unannounced in the middle of the night, our love came when we had given up on asking love to come. I think that has to be part of its miracle. This is how we heal. I will kiss you like forgiveness. You will hold me like I'm hope. Our arms willbandage and we will press promises between us like flowers in a book. I will write sonnets to the salt of sweat on your skin. I will write novels to the scar of your nose. I will write a dictionary of all the words I have used to trying to describe the way it feels to have finally, finally found you. And I will not be afraid of your scars. I know sometimes it's still hard to let me see you in all your cracked perfection... But please know: wether it's the days you burn more brilliant than the sun or the nights you collapse into my lap your body broken into a thousand questions, you are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I will love you when you are a still day, I will love you when you are a hurricane.

--Mouthful of forevers, Clementine von Radics.

London Underground.

 "You'll just have to make the best of it down here," he said to Richard, "in the sewers and the magic and the dark." And then he smiled, hugely, whitely: a gleaming grin, monumental in its insincerity. "Well-delightful to see you again. Best of luck. If you can survive for the next day or two," he confided, "you might even make it through a whole month." And with that he turned and strode off through the sewer, after Door and Hunter.
 Richard leaned against a wall and listened to their footsteps, echoing away, and to the rush of the water running past on its way to the pumpink stations of East London, and the sewage works. "Shit," he said. And then, to his surprise, for the first time since his father died, alone in the dark, Richard Mayhew began to cry.

Neverwhere, Neil Gaiman.