John's depression mixes in with his own apathy and they can drink until they can't even see the stars.

"who died in the flower of his youth"

"and she spoke words that would melt in your hand"

let absurdity slither its way into your lungs

"Cultures that don’t have a word for a colour, technically can’t see that colour."

embrace the madness

"Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood."

"in the sea of tulips"

"Moscow Does Not Believe in Tears"

"I just wanna get lost in your lungs."

"bird of paradise" (name of flower)

"she smokes... sadness"

"dostavaju rozdavaju jedovate bozky"

"And just look at these. They’re killing you but they’re so pretty.”

"our parting is such a sweet sorrow"

"počul jsem jak péra v posteli prosí o milost"

"Farewell to the straths and green valleys below."

"you leave me so desperately lonely"

"he might be child at heart because he likes things as children do and he wears his heart on his sleeve"

You either die as a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain. I think that's true to Ian Watkins, he sang that he was ready to die in this song, and if he died before all of that pedophilic thing, then he would be seen as a legend. But now, he will forever be remembered as a despicable being we once had the disgrace to have in our world. Makes me think, how much of the legends we admire so much would become horrible monsters in our eyes if they lived just a little more?

Being soft & loving is being strong.

""sexual attraction is confusing, maddening, euphoric, even dangerous. it drives people to extreme behavior, even unspeakable crimes. the beating pulse, the sweating palms, the rise of chemicals in the brain are the symptoms of a much deeper, more mysterious affliction. the mechanism that chooses and controls the objects of sexual desire can only be found in the heart of the unexplained""

Have I said too much, or not enough?

"is it just me or are the clouds moving"

"some call it reckless, I call it breathing"

"we claim our land, we tame our seas, we carve our names on the surface of history"

"you can fall asleep with my jacket and wake up just to join me to smoke"

"her breath formed the desert"

"out of the arms of one love and into the arms of another"

"she who holds a thousand souls”

"A thousand insects strip flesh from bone It may be sickening but it feels like home"

"So come on down, you're empty lovers"

"sme deti vetra, cely život všade slobodny"

"i will come like the rain. i will come like the first snow"

"občan zmiešaneho francuzsko-rakuskeho pôvodu s kvapkou dunaja v žilach"

"i have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night"

‘‘The price of living seems to always be death.’’ ‘‘And that is why you become a dealer of death. You feed death as many people as you can to keep it full and content so its eye stays off you.’’

And we're to blame. We give love... a bad name.

Fenris moved like a man who knew the world was ending tomorrow.

He found it best to steadfastly ignore all of his problems, and live in a deluded world of his own creation. That strategy had carried him this far, after all.

You're pretty sure that the two of you are wearing the exact same black jumper, though yours has two holes on the right sleeve, a farewell present from Brutus, a very anxious Jack Russel you once housed for a day or two.

They’re songs written when he was younger, full of teenaged torment, then edited and refined by his wiser adult self so that it sounds less like angst-filled love poetry and more like the harder-hitting, socially-aware raps that are popular these days. Or so he hopes.

His channel was full of videos, dozens of them. None of them showed his face - just his hands, his wrists, sometimes his forearms if he was wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt. In some videos he talked about a book he'd bought. In some videos he talked about things he'd found and collected, picking them up carefully one by one with his fingertips, turning them over and over and patiently mumbling through the details of what made each item special in its own funny way. In some videos he didn't have anything - no props or recent purchases - and instead filled fifteen minutes talking about music he'd heard on the radio, things he'd seen around the city, things he missed about his hometown.

"they're in love, they even released a sextape on twitter that went viral"

The world spun a bit too fast maybe that the lipstick marks turned into cigarette scars.

1897, Frances Hodgson Burnett, His Grace of Osmonde, ch. 14: the stories which came to his ears . . . sometimes spoke strange evil of her—of her violent temper, of her wicked tongue, of her outraging of all customs and decencies."

Each time I felt all the agonies of her death — and at each accession of the disorder I loved her more dearly & clung to her life with more desperate pertinacity. But I am constitutionally sensitive — nervous in a very unusual degree. I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.

old souls "There is a thing inside you that is thousands of years old.

Too old to be captured in poems. Too old to be loved by everyone but loved deeply by a chosen few."

It would seem that he and John share the place; the furniture is a jumble of personalities, the walls peeling with hidden stories that Sherlock itches to uncover.

eternity They are bestial, mad and glorious. Blood is written upon them in reams, a liquid parchment, the sheets soaked through. Wicked voices cry out for mercy and are refused it, banished to bones and dust beneath their feet. Destruction falls under their hands, their joined hands, and in the coiling mass of wrath that is their union, Will sees painful and irrefutable beauty.

He see them entwined, growling and biting, fingers painting deep swatches of scarlet against each other’s skin. He is inside Hannibal. Hannibal is inside him. They roar out as one in violent ecstasy, marking and claiming and binding themselves with passion and rage. There is madness there, so thick he can taste it, but beneath it all is a deep immovable love, unrelenting in its force.

maybe the real friends were the pictures we drew along

aspire. Idioms: reach for the stars, set one's heart on

With the buzz of night air You told me to take care Of your hooded face

With glowing eyes We chased away the wine To wet grass that soaked our backs

If you don’t know What you should do Just lean in and let go

We felt like childhood friends Unsure if it was meant For us to be

You gave a faint shiver And made it so clear That I should get closer to you

" Lid se dělí na pitomce a na ztracený existence"