behind closed doors.
cobblestone streets, dark chocolate, breakfast any time of day, food trucks, exploring cities, coffee shops, scarves, watching snow accumulate, unexpected adventures, grapefruit, foreign languages, photography, speculoos, musicals, macarons, flat whites, reading all day, oatmeal, cardigans, typography
When sculpture, painting, acting, dancing, literature neither reflect nor suggest anything in nature or human experience we turn away with a full wonder in our hearts at why the thing was done.
Zora Neale Hurston
Something is always happening, anybody knows a quantity of stories of people’s lives that are always happening, there are always plenty for the newspapers and there are always lenity in private life. Everybody knows so many stories and what is the use of telling another story. What is the use of telling a story since there are so many and everybody knows so many and tells so many. In the country it is perfectly extraordinary how many complicated dramas go on all the time. And everybody knows them, so why tell another one. There is always a story going on.
Gertrude Stein, “Plays”
You cannot imagine how disagreeable it is to wonder — to look about you, at the eyes and the gestures which promenade themselves in streets and in hours, and to be afraid. To think: “Am I also one of these, a doll, living in a doll world, doomed to be undressed, dressed, spanked, kissed, put to bed?”
Him, Him (Act III, Scene 1), e.e. cummings
"Why should not the town, even today, be a source of poetry?"

- Le Corbusier, Urbanisme (1925)

We’re not what books and plays say we are. We’re not what advertisements say we are. We’re not in the movies and we’re not on the radio.

We’re not what you’re all told and what you think we are.

We’re ourselves.

Mrs. Antrobus, The Skin of Our Teeth (Act II), Thornton Wilder
We’ve rattled along, hot and cold, for some time now—and my advice to you is not to inquire into why or whither, but just enjoy your ice cream while it’s on your plate,—that’s my philosophy.
Sabina, The Skin of Our Teeth (Act I), Thornton Wilder
That’s what it was to be alive. To move about in a cloud of ignorance; to go up and down trampling on the feelings of those … of those about you. To spend and waste time as though you had a million years. To be always at the mercy of one self-centered passion, or another.
Simon Stimson, Our Town (Act III), Thornton Wilder
Only it seems to me that once in your life before you die you ought to see a country where they don’t talk English and don’t even want to.
Mrs. Gibbs, Our Town (Act I), Thornton Wilder 
Véritablement, aujourd’hui, qu’y a-t-il?
Really, today, what is there?

Stéphane Mallarmé, Anecdotes ou poèmes, « Conflit »
enfilade (n.)

1. Ensemble de choses disposées, situées les unes à la suite des autres ; rangée 

2. In architecture, a suite of rooms formally aligned with one another so that the entrances are on a single axis, commonly used to facilitate the flow of people through museums and galleries 

3. Suite ou série longue et ennuyeuse

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