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She was lying on on her face, thrusting her face into the pillow and clutching it in both hands. Her heart was being torn. Her youthful body was shuddering all over as though in convulsions. Suppressed sobs rent her bosom and suddenly burst out in weeping and wailing, then she pressed closer into the pillow: she did not want anyone here, not a living soul, to know of her anguish and her tears. She bit the pillow, bit her hand until it bled (I saw that afterwards), or, thrusting her fingers into her disheveled hair, seemed rigid with the effort of restraint, holding her breath and clenching her teeth.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from the Underground (via c-ovet)

Sometimes, however, this sense of isolation, like acid spilling out of a bottle, can unconsciously eat away at a person’s heart and dissolve it.

Haruki Murakami, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running (via c-ovet)

(via c-ovet)

you say you want to die but,
you still put that seat belt on
and look both ways before crossing the street
you lock your windows and doors
you would scream if someone was following you late at night
you would run for your life
but you do want to die
you just want to die on your own terms.

(via eboniekate)