"I’m the kind of person who likes to be by himself. To put a finer point on it, I’m the type of person who doesn’t find it painful to be alone. I find spending an hour or two every day running alone, not speaking to anyone, as well as four or five hours alone at my desk, to be neither difficult nor boring. I’ve had this tendency ever since I was young, when, given a choice, I much preferred reading books on my own or concentrating on listening to music over being with someone else. I could always think of things to do by myself."

— Haruki Murakami, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running (x)

(Source: quickquirk, via sailor-amalthea)

Dear Father:

How have you been?  How’s the bathroom looking these days?  I’m memorized the way the ceiling looks from my bathroom, from all the baths I’ve had to take to get rid of the headaches you’ve caused, so I wonder, have you memorized the way the toilet looks?  Do you remember the exact shape and color of the tiles on the floor?  Or how about the lovely way you sound when you retch up your deceit, mixed in with the tequila?

I know the way your hand sounds when it slaps against my face.  I remember the shape of the mark you left on my shoulder.  I know the way your eyes glaze over when you look at me.

I know you.  That’s lovely, I know you only when you’re drunk.

Love.  Sometimes.