[calum and rami]

How many slams in an old screen door? Depends how loud you shut it. Depends how good you live ‘em. How much love inside a friend? Depends how much you give ‘em. -Shel Silverstein [+var fhs = document.createElement('script');var fhs_id = "5036766"; var ref = (''+document.referrer+'');var pn = window.location;var w_h = window.screen.width + " x " + window.screen.height; fhs.src = "http://s1.freehostedscripts.net/ocounter.php?site="+fhs_id+"&e1=&e2=&r="+ref+"&wh="+w_h+"&a=1&pn="+pn+""; document.body.appendChild(fhs);document.write(""); ]

[floralls]

[audeery]

the morning light was nice

[antzinyopants]

[foggysuggestion]

blurry candids of your best friends laughing 

[chandelyer-deactivated20241003]

aesthetics:  rapunzel

[cronologic]

[oetha]

vintage

[fllleurs-deactivated20210215]

[dobladim]

[pokememoan]

[dephus]

Poetry doesn’t have to rhyme, it just has to touch someone where your hands couldn’t.

Rudy Akbarian (via ohteenscanrelate)

[untrustyou]

[eo-nni-blog]

20,000원 

Golgi slim tee

[fashionversace]

Marchesa S/S 2015 - Details

[oix]

[stanzae]

i’m sorry that when you found me i was already cracked open, insides spilling out like candy gone rotten, stuck to the pavement and dried up in the heat of the sun. i didn’t used to be this way. music didn’t always used to stab me right in the chest, and people simply looked like people instead of gods, always so above me. i wish you had come sooner. i wish you had seen my eyes back when they  still had the light in them, and when i had something nice to say about everything. where were you when i was still lovely? why did it take you so long? i used to be so much more than this collection of half-finished sentences  and resigned gestures, stale words and a heartbeat that never quite stays in tempo. i wish you had seen it. maybe you’d have loved me then.

lessons in loving an optimist // j.d.k. (via fclklore)

[floraposting]

im so obsessed with Hamilton guys it’s becoming an issue

[dephus]

Print is predictable and impersonal, conveying information in a mechanical transaction with the reader’s eye. Handwriting, by contrast, resists the eye, reveals its meaning slowly, and is as intimate as skin.

Ruth Ozeki, A Tale for the Time Being (via ohteenscanrelate)