I would love to own a little used bookshop somewhere on some dusty European street, sit there with my cat and my tea and watch the strangers come and go, taking bits of history and magic with them, hearing whispers of the dead, dreaming dreams of the future.
Jorge could sell coffee and pastries that his father (the baker from across town) made, and Ivan, the big Russian boy could tote in the crates of new books and take care of trade-ins while I watch him sweat and enjoy the crisp November air. We’d have a few tables out front, cast iron glass-topped, and comfy chairs inside for people to sit and read. Maybe Cecile could bring her harp once a week to keep us all company. The light inside would be muted, warm, and the air would smell of incense, spices, and of course, the books.
Maybe someone would fall in love in my shop, over Dickinson and fresh croissants.
Yes, yes I think that would be quite nice.
Hoje, Audrey completaria 83 primaveras.
“Eu amo as pessoas que me fazem rir. Sinceramente, acho que é a coisa que eu mais gosto, rir. Cura uma infinidade de males. É provavelmente a coisa mais importante em uma pessoa.”
— Morangos Mofados (via bbelieve)
(Source: que-seja-agridoce, via noworriesinwonderland)
(via noworriesinwonderland)
