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Who was it that said, long time ago, “Life is always a tragedy to those who feel?"

Mary MacLane, I Await the Devil’s Coming

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Robbie Wadge by Jolijn Snijders (repost)

[burn-]

Visit Original Link

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Tove Lo ft. Hippie Sabotage, Stay High (Habits Remix)

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He came. He left. Nothing else had changed. I had not changed. The world hadn't changed. Yet nothing would be the same. All that remains is dreammaking and strange remembrance.

André Aciman, Call Me by Your Name

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Adrien Sahores - Prada FW13 - backstage

[mizaaaj-blog]

“If you remember everything... and if you are really like me, then before you leave tomorrow, or when you’re just ready to shut the door of the taxi and have already said goodbye to everyone else and there’s not a thing left to say in this life, then, just this once, turn to me, even in jest, or as an afterthought, which would have meant everything to me when we were together, and, as you did back then, look me in the face, hold my gaze, and call me by your name”

André Aciman, Call Me by Your Name

[jmdemaree-deactivated20180615]

[mizaaaj-blog]

-Andy: What do you want to do?! 

-Ian: Everything

-Andy: Yeah?! What's everything?

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[tinbanes]

Take me with you. I want a doomed love. I want streets at night, wind and rain, no one wondering where I am.

The Hours, Michael Cunningham (via tinbanes)

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Totally F***ed Up (1993)

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Fugit Amor (Fugitive Love, or Fleeting Love), by Auguste Rodin

"Fugitive love" is a version of the popular theme of the lovers Francesca da Rimini and Paolo Malatesta, carried by a whirlwind in the Second Circle of Hell, where they report their fate to the poet Dante: at the moment of their first kiss, they were murdered for their illicit love affair by Francesca's husband and eternally damned. While working at his monumental 'Gates of Hell', Rodin frequently recurred to this subject and presented the couple in various constellations.

[aninsufferableknowitall]

Maybe it’s not, in the end, the virtue of others that so wrenches our hearts as it is the sense of almost unbearably poignant recognition when we see them at their most base, in their sorrow and gluttony and foolishness. You need the virtues, too — some sort of virtues — but we don’t care about Emma Bovary or Anna Karenina or Raskolnikov because they’re good. We care about them because they’re not admirable, because they’re us, and because great writers have forgiven them for it.”

Michael Cunningham, By Nightfall (via aninsufferableknowitall)

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Pascal Venrooy for Fucking Young! by Jeremy Louis Jolie

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Adrien Sahores for Hercules Universal

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Where do the words go when we have said them?

Margaret Atwood, the Small Cabin 1970

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The surface of things by Chris Wiley

[fearlessocity-deactivated201401]

Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back. That’s part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads - at least that’s where I imagine it - there’s a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in awhile, let in fresh air, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you’ll live forever in your own private library.”

Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore (via echoingsouls)

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Gian Lorenzo Bernini (1598–1680), Saint Sebastian (detail)

"The arrows have eaten into the tense, fragrant, youthful flesh and are about to consume his body from within with flames of supreme agony and ecstasy."

-Yukio Mishima describing a painting of St. Sebastian in his novel Confessions of a Mask