The yard was full of tomato plants about to ripen, and mint, mint, everything smelling of mint, and one fine old tree that I loved to sit under on those cool perfect starry California October nights unmatched anywhere in the world.

All confessions are not for love some are just venting out their loneliness.

Clean the clutter in your head, and you will be able to think clearly.

Jamais elle n’avait eu tant d’estime pour elle-même ni tant de mépris pour les autres. Quelque chose de belliqueux la transportait. Elle aurait voulu battre les hommes, leur cracher au visage, les broyer tous.

Written By Gustave Flaubert

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