It was like when you make a move in chess and just as you take your finger off the piece, you see the mistake you’ve made, and there’s this panic because you don’t know yet the scale of disaster you’ve left yourself open to.

Kazuo Ishiguro, Never Let Me Go (via quoted-books)

(via hermionejg)

Guildenstern: It’s autumnal.
Rosencrantz (examining the ground): No leaves.
Guildenstern: Autumnal - nothing to do with leaves. It is to do with a certain brownness at the edges of the day… Brown is creeping up on us, take my word for it… Russets and tangerine shades of old gold flushing the very outside edge of the senses… deep shining ochres, burnt umber and parchments of baked earth — reflecting on itself and through itself, filtering the light. At such times, perhaps, coincidentally, the leaves might fall, somewhere, by repute. Yesterday was blue, like smoke.

Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead (via elucipher)

Yesterday was blue, like smoke.

(via shored-fragments)

(via shored-fragments)