"But even so, every now and then I would feel a violent stab of loneliness. The very water I drink, the very air I breathed, would feel like long, sharp needles. The pages of a book in my hands would take on the threatening metallic gleam of razor blades. I could hear the roots of loneliness creeping through me when the world was hushed at 4 o’clock in the morning."
Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle (via larmoyante)(via elodieeye)
Jim Henson (September 24, 1936 – May 16, 1990). Henson may be gone, but his magic is not.
