Exister, pour nous, c’est sentir.

26. KCMO. Queer Femme. Lover of art and novels. “That secret was a hole in the middle of me that every happy thing fell into.” — Jonathan Safran Foer

[sollertias]

A Cloud Study, Sunset by John Constable, c. 1821 (detail)

[lustik]

Cats by Chervelle Fryer.

Artists on tumblr.

[fridasexual]

Grief is for the strong who use it as fuel for burning.

Lauren Groff, Fates and Furies

[thepowerofblackwomen]

Lena Waithe photographed by Annie Leibovitz for Vanity Fair Magazine

[long70s]

‘70s INTERIORS: The Sunken Living Room

Also known as the conversation pit, the dropped-floor living room was usually appointed with the modern sectional sofa and the shag rug.

[topcat77]

Henri Matisse

 La cage de Perruches et les Poissons Rouges, 1929

[hikristofferson]

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“I feel moody today. I wish you were here. You are my ill and its cure.”

— Iris Murdoch, from a letter to Wallace Robson written c. December 1951

[lesstalkmoreillustration]

Giclée Art Prints By Peter Carrington

*More Things & Stuff

[fridasexual]

Only the willfully blind can ignore that the history of human existence is simultaneously the history of pain.

Zadie Smith, Feel Free

[lifeinpoetry]

despite how many times you’ve killed the animal inside you only to meet it again in the morning / breathing out of your own mouth

Natasha Oladokun, from “The Poem Climbs the Scaffold and Tells You What It Sees” published in The Adroit Journal (via lifeinpoetry)

[nevver]

Party decorations

[imintheleaves]

[tozozozo]

nobody else sees it as a failure, it’s just you

(#19) (>NOT/BUT archive)

[sirjoey-23]

What great philosophy.

[ultralaser]

never too late

[lifeinpoetry]

I want to be soft and what is softer than the sky before it breaks?

Kayleb Rae Candrilli, from “When I transition will I lose my taste for the storm?” published in Pittsburgh Poetry Review (via lifeinpoetry)

[lifeinpoetry]

i say i love you so many times that it burns my trachea. / the words are a magnifying glass / bringing me closer to the sun.

Raquel Salas Rivera, from “‘the worker is limited to producing the value of his labor power’ (the longest fall)” published in The Brooklyn Rail (via lifeinpoetry)

[irmelinis-blog]

Falkner, 3 weeks and 3 days old. Refuses to go to sleep with his siblings.  Mix holland lop - english lop