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He may love you. He probably does. He probably thinks about you all the time. But that isn’t what matters. What matters is what he’s doing about it, and what he’s doing about it is nothing. And if he’s doing nothing, you most certainly shouldn’t do anything. You need someone who goes out of their way to make it obvious that they want you in their life.
(via tachycardiaforyou)

(Source: writepoemsaboutme)

As a queer, you read into texts. You know that something is gay. Like you hope someone is. Scrutinizing for signs and signals. You read too much into things. And so, you take something you love and you read gay romance and subtext into it. And it’s not there enough—you simply read some more in. Rewrite it.
“The Monster Queer Is Camp” by Paul Magrs in Queers Dig Time Lords.
(via queerpotters)

(Source: fuckyeahlesbianliterature)

[Gatsby] wanted nothing less of Daisy than she could go to Tom and say: ‘I never loved you.’ After she had obliterated four years with that sentence they could decide upon the more practical measures to be taken. One of them was that, after she was free, they were to go back to Louisville and be married from her house - just as if it were five years ago.
‘And she doesn’t understand,’ he said. ‘She used to be able to understand. We’d sit for hours -‘
He broke off and began to walk up and down a desolate path of fruit rinds and discarded favours and crushed flowers.
‘I wouln’t ask too much of her,’ I ventured. ‘You can’t repeat the past.’
‘Can’t repeat the past?’ he cried incredulously. ‘Why of course you can!’
He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand.
‘I’m going to fix everything just the way it was before,’ he said, nodding determinedly. ‘She’ll see.’
He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy. His life had been confused and disordered since then, but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was…
The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald. (via the-library-and-step-on-it)
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