Notes of a Dilettante.

arandomwhitedude:

We’re all just looking for that person to makeout with while we listen to punk rock

L O L

(via drawingwlight)

“One afternoon I saw a dozen cars parked in front of the house di- rectly across the street from my godfather’s. The men were dressed in black suits, the women in black dresses. The wife, a young mother of two small children, had just been killed in her car on a wet highway, her body crushed inside the mangled steel. I saw the husband, the now single father, standing on the walkway, greeting some, bidding farewell to others. On the lawn and in the driveway lay tricycles and plastic toys strewn about. And then, for a moment, he was alone there: a car had driven away; the new arrivals had gone inside. It was just the two of us on that wide, oak-lined street in an upscale suburban town, directly across from one another, our hands shoved into our pockets in the same fashion, both looking at the space between us. Neither of us waved, neither nodded. We were strangers, and I recognized no significance, no connection, nothing binding us. Just that empty space there.”

-w.g.