Every year, the bright Scandinavian summer nights fade away without anyone’s noticing. One evening in August you have an errand outdoors, and all of a sudden it’s pitch-black. It is still summer, but the summer is no longer alive.

Tove Jansson, The Summer Book, trans. Thomas Teal (via differenceetrepetition)

darshanapathak:

Raise your hand if you’re straddling the line between crippling anxiety and not giving any fucks about anything