the wind and her whispers

I am the contents of a cake without its creativity. I am the thumb of a hand, the root of a kerria plant, the heart of a soul. Without the other 4 fingers, the plant itself, and the pulse, I am nothing. I am only something when you are here with me. But now I am here, because I have left, wandering with the wind again.

[stitchblades]

jenny holzer, SURVIVAL (1983-85)

[deeplovephotography]

Victoria Fisherman's Wharf portfolio | flickr | facebook | society6

[imperfectio]

DSC_0071 by TessMariee on Flickr.

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

How many times have people used a pen or paintbrush because they couldn’t pull the trigger?

Virginia Woolf, from Selected Essays (via sundayskies)

[atomos]

(by sarah fina)

[radiometric]

[troubled]

ramon haindl

[cocteautwunk]

[angel-wingsonmywrist]

[rajvagyok-deactivated20191112]

[caturdaynights]

[oceaangroen]

(by irenkapatrzy)

[atomos]

i. (by anna gawlak)

[24submarines-blog]

[thingssheloves-deactivated20151]

[hypervocal]

“We don’t mean to offend you by calling you racist.”

Two slam poets with Brave New Voices deliver this fearless indictment of hipster cultural appropriation and all its collateral damage. 

[nevver]

Camo