[nyaa]

never gonna have the drip 90s hentai game girls do

[theorangepdf]

getting that august feeling (things that have ended endlessly are ending again)

[blesstouchiing]

June<3

Louisa May Alcott, Little Women // @exit152 // Anne Sexton, The Truth the Dead Know // Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets // L.M. Montgomery, Anne Of The Island // Franz Kafka, Diaries 1910-1923 // @nobodysflower // John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent

[aridante]

the black saint & the sinner lady & the dead & the truth, morgan parker // the truth the dead know, anne sexton.

[ololygas]

Sharon Olds

[penny-anna]

so when Spider-man crawls up and down walls like a bug people praise him and call him a superhero, but when I, Count Dracula,

[weltenwellen]

Adonis, tr. by Khaled Mattawa, Selected Poems

[voirlvmer]

“They say the absence of a thing doesn’t / have to mean the desire for it. That’s the trouble with words: soon / almost anything sounds true.”

— Carl Phillips, from “Of California”, Then the War 

[soracities]

“–It was a world to sink one’s teeth into, a world of voluminous dahlias and tulips. The trunks were crisscrossed by leafy parasites, their embrace was soft, sticky. Like the the revulsion that precedes a surrender–it was fascinating, the woman was nauseated and it was fascinating.”

— Clarice Lispector, from “Love”, Collected Stories (trans. Katarina Dodson)

[obeliskandmetronome]

[bebemoon]

“I return to my state of garden and shadow.”

— Clarice Lispector, tr. by Stefan Tobler, from Água Viva (via feral-ballad)

[c-130jsuperhercules]

Blood and evilness and violence moodboard

[idledee]

i spent so much time trying to draw a good yllz the last week *sighing*

[d--r--a]

[bebemoon]

“the pearl’s light and agate’s clouds… the Moon Sonata’s sounds…”

— Anna Akhmatova, from “Appearance of the Moon” (via niimph)

[soracities]

“To hell with it, she said softly, annihilated.”

— Clarice Lispector, from “Daydream and Drunkeness of a Young Lady”, Collected Stories (trans. Katarina Dodson)

[soracities]

“Absurd! My God, how absurd! … Who [am I]? Who [am I] that wants to write, who needs to write, who every night sits down hopefully before a blank notebook and stand up exhausted and breathless after having written four or five pages that have [nothing]?”

— Josefina Vicens, The Empty Book (trans. David Lauer)