the stars are not enough

k ill the old parts raise the new • my whole life is a trigger warning backup account for @blacberries

[enchantedbook]

“Love, Desire and Death” (L'Amour, le Désir, et la Mort), an illustration by Georges Barbier, published in Paris in 1922 as part of the series Personnages de Comédie.

[lineageandtrajectory]

Mouthpieces by Juanita Care

[qelflinq]

we’re all fraggles in the eyes of the rock

[i2-xmf]

“Leaving For Work at 4:45 am” (2008)

[memeuplift]

[cartoonrival]

im completely addicted to Open Link in New Tab

[cartoonrival]

if Open Link in New Tab is wrong then baby i dont want to be right

[themysteriousmurasamecastle]

hey.. two people were asking about you… so i gave them your address and phone number… their names were Skeletal Warrior and Skeletal Ice Mage

[opendirectories]

[rexalogy]

robert pütz - building a rainbow

1972

[xalatath]

3-5 turkey vultures will soon be dispatched to your location.

[goblinchief]

Sent a 12 year old on a fake Hero’s Journey last week and holy shit he actually did it

[ambatya]

[fudamnshi]

”time heals all wounds” WRONG. it merely allows for infection.. it is Too late for me

[ilovetodrinkwater]

LOL but seriously release the hounds

[achillesinhighheels]

[thenightwood]

Solstice by Louise Glück

Each year, on the same date, the summer solstice comes. Consummate light: we plan for it, the day we tell ourselves that time is very long indeed, nearly infinite. And in our reading and writing, preference is given to the celebratory, the ecstatic. There is in these rituals something apart from wonder: there is also a kind of preening, as though human genius has participated in these arrangements and we found the results satisfying. What follows the light is what precedes it: the moment of balance, of dark equivalence. But tonight we sit in the garden in our canvas chairs so late into the evening - why should we look either forward or backwards? Why should we be forced to remember: it is in our blood, this knowledge. Shortness of the days; darkness, coldness of winter. It is in our blood and bones; it is in our history. It takes a genius to forget these things.

from The Seven Ages

[birdybirdgirl666-deactivated202]