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...at the end of the day there was nothing to be gained by reminding people that everything that had ever been written, even the greatest and most authoritative texts in the world, were about dreams, not real life, dreams conjured up by words.

— Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book

I'm still sitting here and you are still lying there, and there are so many things we should say to each other, but we shall never be able to.

— Erich Maria Remarque, All Quiet on the Western Front

This was the trouble with families. Like invidious doctors, they knew just where it hurt.

- Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things

We are dreaming of tomorrow and tomorrow isn't coming, We are dreaming of a glory that we don't really want, We are dreaming of a new day when the new day's here already, We are running from the battle when it's one that must be fought. And still we sleep. We are listening for the calling but never really heeding, Hoping for the future when the future's only plans, Dreaming of the wisdom that we are dodging daily, Praying for a savoir when salvation's in our hands. And still we sleep. And still we sleep, And still we pray, And still we fear. And still we sleep.

— Dead Poets Society

Because the sunset, like survival, exists only on the verge of its own disappearing. To be gorgeous, you must first be seen, but to be seen allows you to be hunted.

― Ocean Vuong, On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous

@lovesdaya

I am afraid of falling asleep. To wake up to find that you were there only in my dreams.

— where shadows live

The minute I heard my first love story, I started looking for you, not knowing how blind that was. Lovers don't finally meet somewhere. They're in each other all along.

— Jalal al-Din Rumi

One day you will ask me which is more important? My life or yours? I will say mine and you will walk away not knowing that you are my life.

― Khalil Gibran

And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter – they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.

— Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath