I dreamt of you this night. I saw you with some kind of hallucinatory clarity, and, all morning long, have been going around in a sort of cloud of tenderness for you. I felt your hands, your lips, hair, everything–and if I’d been able to dream such dreams more often, my life would’ve been easier. You are my love.

Vladimir Nabokov, in a letter to his wife Véra (1937), Letters to Véra
(via soracities)
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Mostly, I write stuff. And, like the Egyptians and the Internet, I put cat pictures on my walls. Also, I can read your Tarot.