[trans-ralsei]

[trans-ralsei]

[caughtthedarkness93]

I love my job, but reblogging employment jelly for someone else I love.

[zyprexazydis11]

[inklingowl]

[loveridden1999]

just being alive is heavy tonight, but we have enough dead friends. come over...

[thefugitivesaint]

Charles Rafferty, 'The Problem with Early Warning', 2026

[huariqueje]

A Forest in Winter - Oskar Bergman , 1904.

Swedish , 1879-1963

Oil on canvas, 57.7 x 81.3 cm.

[evergreene-images]

Look up

[nickdewolfarchive]

new york city 1978

greenwich village

photograph by nick dewolf https://www.flickr.com/photos/dboo/50587667147

[great-gatsby]

every reread kills me a little bit more

[great-gatsby]

reread and enjoy <3

[photoarchive]

Tanya Habjouqa, A joy ride on the outskirts of Rafah, 2013

[kosmogrl]

[12tableaux]

As I Was Moving Ahead Occasionally I Saw Brief Glimpses of Beauty (Jonas Mekas, 2000)

[groundwater]

that one article about tove jansson which has the line like ‘her experience of growing up gay is there in the character of snufkin, who is all the more loved for being different’ i just………….. it makes my heart ache in such a gentle way

[groundwater]

“In most fiction, family is what you escape from if you want to fulfil yourself. For Jansson, family is a place of tolerance, where we can fail and become ourselves. Her experience of growing up gay is there in Snufkin – who is all the more loved for being different. Like the prodigal son, everyone is so thrilled to see him, no one ever asks him where he has been. It’s there too, in Too-Ticky, Jansson’s portrait of her partner. And above all it’s there in the wonderful story where Moomintroll is transformed into the bug-eyed King of California, and his mother recognises him straight away.”

[lionfloss]

by KangHee Kim (tinycactus)

[holespoles]

Quint Bucholz (1957-）"Book Stairs"

[farmwitch]

[thepersonalquotes]

April will start well 🧿🧿🧿🧿🧿🧿🧿🧿🧿🧿🧿🧿🧿🧿🧿🧿

[exitwound]

FLOWER MOON Spring is the season of crying and seeing nothing. Of choking up on someone else’s trash. Barbed tennis balls that lodge wherever air’s supposed to go, nasal cavity homewreckers. All spring my lenses wrenched themselves from my eyes, jumped ship, spore-lined and furious. Everything melted and ran down my face. All the trees wanted my number. Sent fuzzy messengers to murmur in my ears: I get so afraid sometimes all I want all I want is. All spring I brushed confessions out of my hair. Tore the little letters apart and locked myself in the refrigerator, until the world promised to stop birthing such soft things.

Franny Choi, from “PERIHELION: A HISTORY OF TOUCH” in Soft Science