[i]
you wouldn't like me
(Jean, whatever, wherever you are, in minus time-space or plus soul-time, forgive me all this, parenthesis included).
Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita page 104 (via mmattoid)
Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita page 104 (via mmattoid)
It is as easy as a car crash – a car & a body – a leaping body, a pedestrian body – witnessed from a cigarette sidewalk how a body is & isn’t. This is the summer I am so sad you don’t want to leave me alone for five goddamn minutes: you even shave my legs for me every morning before you shave yours & you drop me off at the Chinese restaurant next to the tattoo parlor where you work & I sit at a table in the back all day ostensibly writing ostensibly being but mostly just – not dying I guess which is enough I guess. I wash the cuffs of your shirts – blood & ink splattered – in the sink every day. You ban the words I’m sorry but I mean it anyway – the only Am I’m sure of. The moment when a woman is just a body & there I am frozen & want to walk out on you & the bar tab & walk straight back to bed please I’m sorry I’ll do better tomorrow please better tomorrow I will have a poem to show you a poem that lies about how tired it is, how it wants only to lay down beside the body & ask the woman her name.
Portia Elan, “You Never Only Say I Love You; You Always Say I Love You Portia” (via pigmenting)
Portia Elan, “You Never Only Say I Love You; You Always Say I Love You Portia” (via pigmenting)
We are the generation of nostalgia. We grew up in the age of transition. From hand-written letters to electronic mails. From film to digital. We were fascinated by new things, neglecting the way we spend our afternoons. Cupcakes and tea. Play-Doh and Polly Pockets. Young and naive. Technology completely changed the way we waited and we grew up too fast. The simple things in life seems more meaningful now. We grew up in the age of transition and have become the generation of nostalgia.
this explains the 90s kids (via ladymargaerytyrells)
this explains the 90s kids (via ladymargaerytyrells)
(Source: kistybelle, via elaeye)
(Source: weissesrauschen, via c-ovet)
Mother (very rough demo) / Finn Butler
20 plays
“The Waste Land: III. The Fire Sermon”, T.S. Eliot
(Source: meiringens, via mirroir)
Editorial detail of Guinevere van Seenus in ‘Dreaming of Another World’ photographed by Tim Walker for Vogue Italia March 2011
(via suicideblonde)
Joan of Arc came back as a little girl in Japan, and her father told her to stop listening to her imaginary friends.
Elvis was born again in a small village in Sudan, he died hungry, age 9, never knowing what a guitar was.
Michelangelo was drafted into the military at age 18 in Korea, he painted his face black with shoe polish and learned to kill.
Jackson Pollock got told to stop making a mess, somewhere in Russia.
Hemingway, to this day, writes DVD instruction manuals somewhere in China. He’s an old man on a factory line. You wouldn’t recognise him.
Gandhi was born to a wealthy stockbroker in New York. He never forgave the world after his father threw himself from his office window, on the 21st floor.
And everyone, somewhere, is someone, if we only give them a chance.
I Wrote This For You, Iain S. Thomas (via ihatenietzsche)
(Source: dobslovearmy, via unicornsareblue)
At fifteen you had the radiance of early morning, at twenty you will begin to have the melancholy brilliance of the moon.
F.Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise (via pfelps)
F.Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise (via pfelps)
(Source: xtheonlyhopeformeisyou, via untranslate)
(Source: princenaveen, via untranslate)
Kate Moss wears Christian Dior Haute Couture crystal chandelier earrings shot by Annie Leibovitz for Vogue US October 1999
(via untranslate)
Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Rainer Maria Rilke, from The Book of Hours (via ponceau)
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Rainer Maria Rilke, from The Book of Hours (via ponceau)
(Source: liquidnight, via ponceau)
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