Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.
By Anaïs Nin (via observando)
another vintage photo - this is our dining table, obviously, and the complete pile of >100 old books that we rescued from a rubbish skip back in 2009. Some of these have found new homes via amazon marketplace (some still on sale: http://www.amazon.co.uk/shops/proseandpassion), some are in the attic, and some on my shelves.