Sense and Sensibility is set in southwest England between 1792 and 1797, and portrays the life and loves of the Dashwood sisters, Elinor and Marianne. The novel follows the young ladies to their new home, a meagre cottage on a distant relative's property, where they experience love, romance and heartbreak.

This is my first poetry book where I just kind of release my feelings ok?

new year, new me. dobama still real.

a glorified misc book for a glorified piece of trash

Darkness. Definition: Sherlock Holmes Light. Definition: John Watson look at the stars. look how they shine for you. and everything you do. it was all yellow.

first thing's first- dobama is real

Disclaimer: massive spoilers for the series finale. Triggers for pretty brief suicidal thoughts. They both know it. They say it to each other in looks and tentative touches, when House is rubbing Wilson's back when he feels as if he's about to hack up his lungs. In those moments, he doesn't have enough headspace to think, "House loves me," but sometimes he doesn't have to think it. Sometimes it's just his touch on Wilson's back and a few gentle words swathed in sarcasm. He knows. They both know. And what if Wilson was a star? And what if House was the universe, and what if he loved Wilson and let the oceans of time dwindle so he could be with him; only him, forever? What if there was a utopia?

a compilation of thoughts that cloud my messy brain

John's never seen a kid like him. He has this beautiful, crazy grace - withheld behind a smug smile and wisecracks that make John frustrated in so many different kinds of ways. And his eyes; crystal clear, decisive, cleaning through the unimportant things to find the valuables in life. He may or may not have a thing for smoking and James Bond, his favorite ice cream is mint with a chocolate swirl, and he is absolutely addicted to Pop Rocks and toffee. He enjoys pretty boys and warehouses, where he can hoard and think and be alone. Also, bumper cars, and John Watson. But Sherlock Holmes's thing, his niche, his calling in life... is to steal. Books. Wallets. Phones. Cars. Everything you've ever wanted, he's had. Everything you've ever wished for, he's stolen. Everything you are, everything you told yourself that you weren't, he owns, and he plays you like an out-of-tune violin. Does that mean that John's going to let him steal his heart? Not a shot in hell.