No matter where I go, I still end up me. What’s missing never changes. The scenery may change, but I’m still the same incomplete person. The same missing elements torture me with a hunger that i can never satisfy. I think that lack itself is as close as I’ll come to defining myself.
Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun   (via borntherevolution)

(Source: decrepito, via borntherevolution)