Yesterday I overheard a mother say to her young son, “And what would you do if I cried?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Moms don’t cry.”

“Yes we do. Adults cry too, all the time. Adults get sad sometimes. Sometimes angry.”

The son was silent. Comprehending a mother’s sadness when you are just a child is close to impossible. But I heard the sorrow in her voice, and know that she wanted her son to do more than nothing the next time she felt the need to shed tears.

The men. The men the men the men the men the men the men. The lives we live. And, the men. 

old sport
old sport
old sport
old sport
old sport
old sport
old
sport

a poem by jay gatsby

(via atlantides)

e v e r y t h i n g h u r t s a t h o u r s l i k e t h i s 

modernhepburn:

average

(Source: amodelstudent)