“Lifting the mask off a local clown,
Feeling down like him.
Seeing the light in a station bar,
And traveling far in sin.
Sailing downstairs to the northern line,
Watching the shine of the shoes.
Hearing the trials of the people there,
Who’s to care if they lose?”—Nick Drake (via jm-brown)
“His familiars were creeping and winged things, and they seemed to enroll him in their hand. Bees hummed around his ears with an intimate air, and tugged at the heath and furze-flowers at his side in such numbers as to weigh them down to the sod. The strange amber-coloured butterflies which Egdon produced, and which were never seen elsewhere, quivered in the breath of his lips, alighted upon his bowed back, and sported with the glittering point of his hook as he flourished it up and down… In and out of the fern-dells snakes glided in their most brilliant blue and yellow guise, it being the season immediately following the shedding of their old skins, when their colours are brightest. Litters of young rabbits came out from their forms to sun themselves upon hillocks, the hot beams blazing through the delicate tissue of each thin-fleshed ear, and firing it to a blood-red transparency in which the veins could be seen. None of them feared him.”—The Return of the Native, Thomas Hardy. (via morethanthesumofitsparts)