anonymous donor

idiosyncrasies from an ego; sexuality, humour, friendly sarcasm, art, hedonism, society, relationships, men, women, subversive culture & everything else...

[lentejasapolonio-deactivated202]

Personas de las que sólo conoces un poco de su alma y por las que sientes dolor por su dolor.

Algunos días traen reencuentros feroces con el vivir.

[dadoranonimo-blog]

quando o consolo (algum) vem de lugares estranhos e inesperados.

(coisas bonitas)

[dadoranonimo-blog]

a morte é uma puta

3 meses,

e a(r)dor não passa

[kplatz]

[dadoranonimo-blog]

da dor

[dadoranonimo-blog]

o joão não o meu joão não * não conseguir tirar da cabeça, o meu amor morreu o joão morreu

[bythelightofadyingstar-blog]

Robert Frank.

[dadoranonimo-blog]

4 am

[causeanddefect]

Project 365: And so it begins… - Feb. 5, 2014

3.5”x5.5” mixed media collage

$25.00

[3wings]

[dadoranonimo-blog]

Naissance d’une galaxie, 1969 Max Ernst

[burningdance-deactivated2024091]

[onlydoll]

Where does this tenderness come from? And what will I do with it? Young stranger, poet, wandering through town, you and your eyelashes—longer than anyone’s.

Marina Tsvetaeva (via only-doll)

?

[gwranda]

Melancholia is, I believe, a musical problem: a dissonance, a change in rhythm. While on the outside everything happens with the vertiginous rhythm of a cataract, on the inside is the exhausted adagio of drops of water falling from time to tired time. For this reason the outside, seen from the melancholic inside, appears absurd and unreal, and constitutes ‘the farce we must all play’. But for an instant—because of a wild music, or a drug, or the sexual act carried to a climax—the very slow rhythm of the melancholic soul does not only rise to that of the outside world: it overtakes it with an ineffably blissful exorbitance, and the soul then thrills animated by delirious new energies.

Alejandra Pizarnik, from “The Bloody Countess” (1971)

[hijaktaffairs-deactivated201812]

[tacomablue-deactivated20190305]

Frances Foley, 2nd portrait

[mvp-fotografia]

[dadoranonimo-blog]

don't we love metaphors

[browndresswithwhitedots]

[xushima]

© Antonello Silverini | Rainy Today, 2009

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

She was at once so resolute and so dreamy, so sensual and so intelligent. She also was intensely private. What she knew best was how it felt to be alone, unique, isolated. She was lacking in the sense of a solid communal life; What bound people together escaped her. What separated them was an object of wonder, delight and despair. She seemed as detached from herself as from everyone else.

Stephen Spender, on Virginia Woolf (via moonsiren) in one of those days

[petitmal]

Don’t weigh more than a flame and all will be well, A flame of zephyr, a flame from a warm and blood-stained lung, In a word, a flame. Ruin in a friendly and rested face, Ruin, to say everything, ruin. Don’t weigh more than the top of a mast and all will be well. A mast in the sky, a mast like a bodice. One and no more. One and feminine, One.

[petitmal]

Henri Michaux | Enchained Chains

Photo: Andrew McLeod | BLACKMETALCYTWÖMBLY

[dadoranonimo-blog]

pluma