I cling to Books.

“What I’m not sure about, is if our lives have been so...

Tue, 21 May 2013 16:57:18 +0200

“What I’m not sure about, is if our lives have been so different from the lives of the people we save. We all complete. Maybe none of us really understand what we’ve lived through.. or feel we’ve had enough time.“

eros is bullshit: a poem

Sun, 19 May 2013 19:00:07 +0200

the theory that people

are always searching for

their other half is

bullshit.

don’t let anyone, not

even a god, tell you

you are anything less

than whole.

Photo

Sun, 19 May 2013 18:56:54 +0200

Starry Night over the Rhone

Cherry Tree

Boulevard Clichy

The Starry Night

vvant: let’s play a game called “are you staring at me because im hot or ugly”

Wed, 08 May 2013 11:04:51 +0200

vvant:

let’s play a game called “are you staring at me because im hot or ugly”

Photo

Wed, 08 May 2013 09:14:15 +0200

Photo

Wed, 08 May 2013 03:41:53 +0200

Photo

Wed, 08 May 2013 01:51:18 +0200

dotcore: Nintendo.by Frederik Wiedel.

Tue, 07 May 2013 22:09:25 +0200

dotcore:

Nintendo.
by Frederik Wiedel.

Photo

Tue, 07 May 2013 20:18:42 +0200

Photo

Tue, 07 May 2013 18:28:04 +0200

H O U S E M A R T E L L ➻ fake book of the houses

Tue, 07 May 2013 16:37:14 +0200

H O U S E M A R T E L L ➻ ~~fake~~ book of the houses

Marchesa Pre-Spring 2012

Tue, 07 May 2013 14:46:34 +0200

Marchesa Pre-Spring 2012

"People will love you. People will hate you. And none of it will have anything to do with you."

Tue, 07 May 2013 12:55:39 +0200

“People will love you. People will hate you. And none of it will have anything to do with you.”

- Abraham Hicks

Photo

Tue, 07 May 2013 11:05:01 +0200

Photo

Tue, 07 May 2013 09:14:00 +0200

Photo

Tue, 07 May 2013 08:31:32 +0200

Photo

Tue, 07 May 2013 01:51:16 +0200

secretly, between the shadow and the soul: ON BEING A SHITTY SAD SELFISH TWENTY-YEAR-OLD

Mon, 06 May 2013 22:09:41 +0200

secretly, between the shadow and the soul: ON BEING A SHITTY SAD SELFISH TWENTY-YEAR-OLD:

aleashurmantine:

1.
Your roommate comes home to find you
in the kitchen, in old sweatpants and a lace bra,
heating soup on the stove. You wonder

what she thinks of your stomach, its pillowy folds, if
it isn’t a little obscene, how it grows softer every day
while you stand there, tearing chunks off of a baguette,

barely chewing, constantly swallowing.

2.
Your friend invites you over for a movie. Cancel because your
feet hurt. Cancel because your fat stomach hurts. Cancel
because he thinks you’re beautiful and you know you aren’t.

3.
Consider writing the boy you love another letter
to tell him you are sad that he ignored your first letter.
Wonder when you stopped worrying about being

a “crazy girl.” Acknowledge that becoming one
feels natural, like tugging at ivy until it’s uprooted, like
holding the vine and watching soil fall from the roots,

back to more soil, gently.

4.
Fear every man who looks at you.
Hate every man who doesn’t look at you.

5.
The train whistle you hear every night
sounds like the cawing of an angry crow.
This is not the mournful song everyone

writes about, not the lone bassoon stretching
its neck into the night—this is something harsh,
dogged: blaring sandpaper, a smoke alarm.

6.
Think about getting hit by a car almost every day.
Resent that you can’t think of anything more creative
or less passive.

7.
But that boy. You have spent most of a year unraveling
your skin for him, draping strands of it places
you thought he’d notice, your teeth always chattering

like crude drums calling him to battle across the room,
across three states, across your bed. The woman he loves
is a magnet. You don’t know what you are, but you suspect

it is something less permanent, something
more likely to dissolve in water.

8.
Eat the whole baguette. Lay in bed
sweating. Don’t call anyone back. There’s
that train whistle again: furious, obscene.

jizai: Martin Wittfooth

Mon, 06 May 2013 20:20:16 +0200

jizai:

Martin Wittfooth

there is only one god, and his name is death

Mon, 06 May 2013 20:18:42 +0200

there is only one god, and his name is death