Dexter knew that there was something dismal about this Northern spring, just as he knew there was something gorgeous about the fall. Fall made him clinch his hands and tremble and repeat idiotic sentences to himself, and make brisk abrupt gestures of command to imaginary audiences and armies. October filled him with hope which November raised to a sort of ecstatic triumph …
F. Scott Fitzgerald, Winter Dreams (via scout) (via unicornology)
The end of summer breaks my heart every time. This has been the shortest, worst summer of my life. I want it to be over but don’t know what’s next.
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