It was the time of year, the time of day, for a small insistent sadness to pass into the texture of things. Dusk, silence, iron chill. Something lonely in the bone.
Don DeLillo, White Noise (via larmoyante)
I had all the characteristics of a human being—flesh, blood, skin, hair—but my depersonalization was so intense, had gone so deep, that my normal ability to feel compassion had been eradicated, the victim of a slow, purposeful erasure. I was simply imitating reality, a rough resemblance of a human being, with only a dim corner of my mind functioning.
Bret Easton Ellis, American Psycho (via larmoyante)
But even so, every now and then I would feel a violent stab of loneliness. The very water I drink, the very air I breathe, would feel like long, sharp needles. The pages of a book in my hands would take on the threatening metallic gleam of razor blades. I could hear the roots of loneliness creeping through me when the world was hushed at four o’clock in the morning.
Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle (via larmoyante)
I am alone here in my own mind.
There is no map
and there is no road.
Anne Sexton, “January 24th” (via larmoyante)
Something funny happens to people who are lonely. The lonelier they get, the less adept they become at navigating social currents. Loneliness grows around them, like mould or fur, a prophylactic that inhibits contact, no matter how badly contact is desired. Loneliness is accretive, extending and perpetuating itself. Once it becomes impacted, it isn’t easy to dislodge.
I feel like I’ve swallowed a cloudy sky.
Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart (via larmoyante)
He rarely smiles, except for when he's around him.
Shūtoku || Shooting Guard