Each morning the day lies like a fresh shirt on our bed; this incomparably fine, incomparably tightly woven tissue of pure prediction fits us perfectly. The happiness of the next twenty-four hours depends on our ability, on waking, to pick it up.
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Hamlet the Mini Pig Goes Down the Steps To Get To Oatmeal [x]
Game of thrones, 2x09, “Blackwater”
OH MY GOD WHAT EVEN IS THAT POST WHY AM I SCREAMING
How often we wish for another chance
to make a fresh beginning.
A chance to blot out our mistakes
And change failure into winning.
Catvengers, assemble!
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