What was it that brought me back into the world again? It was the terrible and fascinating reality of my disaster; it was the way things happened. Not that I enjoyed it; I was a self-conscious girl and I suffered a good deal from all this exposure. But the development of events on that Saturday night — that fascinated me; I felt that I had had a glimpse of the shameless, marvelous, shattering absurdity with which the plots of life, though not of fiction, are improvised. I could not take my eyes off it.
[…] And I saw him looking over at me with an expression as close to a reminiscent smile as the occasion would permit, and I knew that he had been surprised by a memory either of devotion or my little buried catastrophe. I gave him a gentle uncomprehending look in return. I am a grown-up woman now; let him unbury his own catastrophes.
—Alice Munro, An Ounce of Cure (via nineteencigarettes)
Feeling disconnected from the internet lately. All the small, disposable things. I want to sink into a project for a while, and just stay there. Hold my breath and not look back. Something big. Meaty. Wake up in a cave one day and have to climb back out. Find a substantial something waving down at me from way up at the top.