Things on the Internet.

bedtime stories and night terrors.

[red-lipstick]

[blackestdespondency]

Everything, all that I’ve written, is grey. My life, even my mental life, has been like a drizzly day in which everything is non-occurrence and haziness, empty privilege and forgotten purpose. I agonize in tattered silks. In the light and in tedium I see but don’t know myself. My humble attempt to say at least who I am, to record like a machine of nerves the slightest impressions of my subjective and ultra-sensitive life – this was all emptied like a bucket that got knocked over, and it poured across the ground like the water of everything. I fashioned myself out of false colours, and the result is an attic made out to be an empire. My heart, out of which I spun the great events of prose I lived, seems to me today – in these pages written long ago and reread now with a different soul – like a water pump on a homestead, instinctively installed and pressed into service. I shipwrecked on an unstormy sea where my feet could have touched bottom. And I ask the conscious vestige that I still conserve, in this confused series of intervals between non-existent things, what good it did me to fill so many pages with phrases I believed in as my own, with emotions I felt as if I had thought them up, with flags and army banners that finally amount to no more than pieces of paper stuck together with spit by the daughter of the beggar who sits under the eaves. I ask what remains of me why I bothered with these useless pages, dedicated to rubbish and dispersion, lost even before existing among Destiny’s ripped up papers.

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet, P. 363 (via blackestdespondency)

[khrishna]

The Dao of getting the point across

Thinking only of themselves, people tend to forget that  we all stand on two legs, our feet touching the same earth. Therefore, if what you have to say goes over people’s heads, aim lower, whispering softly; if it goes in one ear and out the other, aim lower;hit them in the heart.If the heart is too small, or too hard then aim  lower still, and kick them in the groin. Thus a noble person never fails to get the point across

[forthefuns]

[pleasant-tomorrow]

WHO HURT HIM

[mexiflan]

This episode was recorded shortly after his wife died.

[unfollowfriday]

[headphonepoe-deactivated2017072]

This man had an answer to everything.

[peace-out-loser-deactivated2024]

Bob Ross was a fucking treasure

[khrishna]

To the very best of cats. RIP 1995-2015

[nevver]

Architectural finds, Matt Simmonds

[hadeiadel-blog]

[the-bitchextraordinaire]

“But who prays for Satan? Who, in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it most?”

- Mark Twain (via homo-infimus)

[maliara-deactivated20200409]

[e7]

dark

[caveofthemorbid]

From “ The Story of the Vivian Girls, In What is Known as the Realms of the Unreal, of the Glandeco-Angelinian War Storm, Caused by the Child Slave Rebellion.”

[coma-morning-deactivated2026041]

March 1999 Recording session with David Bowie for ‘Without You I’m Nothing’ New York, USA

[geehorff-blog]

[fionagoddess]

[vixensandmonsters-deactivated20]

Maila Nurmi, 1955

[totheinternetandbeyond-deactiva]

some of my music makes me want to cuddle for 7 hours and some of my music makes me want to do hard drugs in a motel room while wearing lingerie

[khrishna]

Same.

[poetrysociety]

H. D. Born Today, September 10, 1886

Mysteries Remain The mysteries remain, I keep the same cycle of seed-time and of sun and rain; Demeter in the grass, I multiply, renew and bless Bacchus in the vine; I hold the law, I keep the mysteries true, the first of these to name the living, dead; I am the wine and bread. I keep the law, I hold the mysteries true, I am the vine, the branches, you, and you.

photograph via Yale

[transfemmbeatrice]

Solitude is very dangerous. Great passions grow into monsters in the dark of the mind. But if you share them with loving friends, they remain human. They can be endured.

Medea (via prettybookish)