this isn't happiness.: F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Notebooks
- Days of this February were white and magical, the nights were starry and crystalline. The town lay under a cold glory.
- Dyed Siberian horse.
- As thin as a repeated dream.
- The sea was coming up in little intimidating rushes.
- The island floated, a boat becalmed, upon the almost perceptible…
Dear KM - and you wonder why I draw the comparison! Luff ya, c-word.
I’d find this really sweet…if I had feelings. But I don’t. Nope.
(via tumfs)