03:15"Language is my mother, my father, my husband, my brother, my sister, my whore, my mistress, my wife, my pen-friend, my check-out girl. Language is a complimentary moist lemon-scented cleansing square or handy freshen-up wipette. Language is the breath of God. Language is the dew on a fresh apple. It’s the soft rain of dust that falls into a shaft of morning light as you pluck from an old bookshelf a forgotten volume of erotic memoirs. Language is the creak on a stair. It’s a spluttering match held to a frosted pain. It’s a half-remembered childhood birthday party; the warm wet trusting touch of a leaking nappy; the hulk of a charred Panzer; the underside of a granite boulder; the first downy growth on the upper lip of a Mediterranean girl; cobwebs long since overrun by an old Wellington boot." — Stephen Fry (via weissewiese)

(Source: cartographe, via weissewiese)