Passionate In Paris: Archives

Off To The Races- Lana Del Rey

And I’m off to the races, cases
of Bacardi chasers, chasin’ me all over town
Cuz he knows I’m wasted, facing
Time again on Riker’s Island and I won’t get out
Because I’m crazy, baby I need you to come here and save me
I’m your little scarlet, starlet singing in the garden
Kiss me on my open mouth

Now I’m off to the races, laces
Leather on my waist is tight and I am fallin’ down
I can see your face is shameless, Cipriani’s basement
Love you but I’m going down
God I’m so crazy, baby, I’m sorry that I’m misbehaving
I’m your little harlot, starlet, Queen of Coney Island
Raising hell all over town
Sorry ‘bout it

Jan 31, 2012470 notes

Too many funerals, not enough graduations. Too many babyshowers and not enough weddings.

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“People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in the ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.” —Diane Setterfield (via blowkissesnotboys)

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Play

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