Dynamo, Grand Palais, Paris
She stubs out her cigarette in the brown glass ashtray, then settles herself against him, ear to his chest. She likes to hear his voice this way, as if it begins not in his throat, but in his body, like a hum or a growl, or like a voice speaking from deep underground. Like the blood moving through her own heart: a word, a word, a word.
|—||Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin (via filthiestlaugh)|
"you think this is a fucking joke?"
omg this made me lololol