my life's an open field @ghostsofbrightlights - Tumblr Blog

jet | they/them

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[lyric edit requests - open] (openquotes -> ghostsofbrightlights)

#jet speaks

geoffricklyarchive

21 January 2013 | United Nations @ The Barbary

photos by Maclyn Bean

circaboard

tomorrowillbeyou

DIE ON THE WEST COAST - CIRCA SURVIVE

takeyourtears

smilesessions66

atd-i @ cal state fullerton 1999 by bradley stemke

buttholes & shame

2002 - Tour with Sparta

source - Justin Borucki

#thursday

martyrology44

Just a lil something i made while watching youtube, first time trying out this kind of thing and its so much fun... I gotta do more if i get some ideas, the statue on the right is of saint anthony cause yanno...anthony :3

romancebullets

cordspaghetti

last weekend’s request was for hayley & g 🌸

mossy-petrichor

warbeneaththerain

mountain ranges. morning red bathed ridges. stab up at the trembling blue horizon. grey slides lazily off rooftops. lands on the incandescent ground and dies. a flock of little men touch down on the thin surface of porch light. dawn's foot soldiers return. to march twilight across our faces. skylights ignite and explode, scattering shards of april around the room. no one even lives here. we're too busy crashing our cars every morning at the same house. paving the same roads. unwilling to walk them. and even when we extend ourselves its only to be included in a moment that stands still. so often we don't struggle to improve conditions, we struggle for the right to say we improved conditions. and so often we form communities only to use them as exclusionary devices. we forget that somewhere a man is beside himself with grief. somewhere people are calling for teachers. and no one is answering. somewhere a man stands, walks across the room, and breaks his nose against the door. and somewhere these people are keeping records, writing a book. for now we can call it "the book about the basic flaw" or "the book about the letter a" or any title that a book about a man that no one cares about might have. as we turn the pages we call out the sounds of nothing. the sounds of a vanishing alphabet standing here. waiting.