well, fuck.

Mads || 21

[addictivecontradiction]

Harlan County, U.S.A., 1976

[manga-meow]

[lakevida]

sink water on shirt sleeve incident leaves one dead three injured

[weaponsofclairvoyance]

i love punk because if you dont like a song just wait it'll be over in like 90 seconds. dont worry about it. and i love metal because if you DO like a song good news buddy there's still 11 more minutes

[fuckg-0-d]

im young beautiful and having so much fun rotting in my bed

[fanghusband]

may your 2022 be vampiric and homoerotic

[vnusplanetoflove]

just so u know everything in the entire universe is always about love and when it isn't about love it is abt the absence of love. hope this makes sense

[coldforever-deactivated20171119]

We all died in 2012 this is hell

[angelicguy]

going to hooters with horse blinders on and ordering a small cesar salad that i do not finish, i tip 200 dollars and kill myself in the parking lot with a katana

[franzkavkas]

average kafka diary entry

[lovewillbreakyourheartforever]

Simone Weil, First and Last Notebooks, trans. Richard Rees

[lucydacusgirl]

*says ‘I’m so fucking sick of this pandemic shit’ in a distinctly vaccinated, pro mask, pro lockdown, pro taking all the necessary safety measures way*

[basic-bamboo]

*says 'I'm so fucking sick of this pandemic shit' in a distinctly anti-capitalist 'break the patents on all the vaccines' way*

[voirlvmer]

“November is a hinge in the year, and the door gets opened to ghosts.”

— Nina MacLaughlin, from “On the First of November, the Ghosts Arrive”, The Paris Review

[j-j-johnny]

How To Read Ezra Pound, Martin Espada

[shinhati]

cemeteries aren't creepy they're actually devoted to memory and rest and love and humanity

[goryhorror]

Artist, Maxime Taccardi, is a painter who is most notable for his unusual method - creating his pieces using his own blood.

“I see art as some sort of ritual, a chat between spirits and my mortal flesh.” -Maxime Taccardi

[helium-stims]

source

[jameskirk]

“I know you would like a god to come down and feed you and punish you. (…) there are no angels but the angels of hunger,”

— Selected Poems: 1965-1975; ‘Crow song’ by Margaret Atwood (via 89words)