I've been thinking

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I've been thinking
I’ll be minding my own business trying to fall asleep and then my monkey brain will randomly remember riff raff screeching “I reMEEEEEEMMMMBUH doing the TIIIIIIIIIIIME WARP” and then I’ll feel an urge to dance at 2 AM
Ravenclaw Aesthetic
Crystal collections. Worn books with cracked spines. Pretty bookmarks. Pressed flowers. Stargazing and being able to spot constellations. Cozy woollen jumpers. Being endlessly enthusiastic about all projects. Leather-bound books. Eclectic music taste. Statement jewellery. Poems with the best parts highlighted or underlined. Extensive scribbled notes left everywhere. Detailed journal entries. Fossils. Vintage fashion. Reading in other languages. Late night walks. Reading or writing on public transport. Having an under-appreciated creative side. Unique fashion sense.
One of my favourite things about Florence is that she didn’t go crazy with her money. She has a pretty regular home in London. No flash cars or anything. She literally spends it all on nice clothes, books, tea and junk.
One of my favourite pictures of the fairy witch
Howl by Florence and the Machine except you’re running desperately through the forest, hounds baying at your heels - hellhounds, you feel certain - and the song is playing from your phone in your pocket. Because you have a sense of humor. And because it keeps you going as the chase continues for what feels like forever, and keeps you from fearing what will happen when it ends.
rawest fucking florence and the machine lyrics in no particular order:
no more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone
want me to love you in moderation, do i look moderate to you?
this will be my last confession, ‘i love you’ never felt like any blessing, whisper it like it’s a secret only to condemn the one who hears it
because i am done with my graceless heart, so tonight i’m gonna cut it out and then restart
tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks and the kindest of kisses breaks the hardest of hearts
but the loneliness never left me, i always took it with me, but i can put it down in the pleasure of your company
at seventeen i started to starve myself, i thought that love was a kind of emptiness, but at least i understood then the hunger i felt, and i didn’t have to call it loneliness
the fabric of your flesh, pure as a wedding dress
it’s an even sum, it’s a melody, it’s a battle cry, it’s a symphony
but i know it’ll have to drown me, before i can breathe easy
to the crowd i was crying out, and in your place there were a thousand other faces
and it’s over and i’m going under, but i’m not giving up i’m just giving in
in a moment of joy and fury i threw myself from the balcony like my grandmother, so many years before me
and it’s peaceful in the deep, cathedral where you cannot breathe
i know i seem shaky, these hands aren’t fit for holding
i’m not beat up by this yet, you can’t tell me to regret, been in the dark since the day we met, fire help me to forget
it seems that i have been held in this dreaming state, a tourist in the waking world, never quite awake
shower your affection, let it rain on me, pull down this mountain, drag your cities to the sea
and i did cartwheels in your honor, dancing on tiptoes, my own secret ceremonials
a year like this passes so strangely, somewhere between sorrow and bliss
in the spring, i shed my skin and it blows away with the changing winds
i swallow the sound and it swallows me whole until there’s nothing left inside my soul
and i want you so badly, but you could be anyone
i was in the darkness, so darkness i became
Everyone knows there are only two human emotions: Freddie Mercury crying out “I don’t wanna die, sometimes wish I’d never been born at all” and Florence Welch declaring “I am done with my graceless heart, so tonight I’m gonna cut it out and then restart”.
At any rate, I think my love of clothes has at least partly to do with my love of detail. Lots of writers have been clothes horses and dandies - Proust, Oscar Wilde, Baudelaire, Colette all come to mind…even Emily Dickinson in her white muslin dresses or Ivy Compton-Burnett with her diamond brooches and severe Victorian black. Poring through racks of vintage clothes or obsessing over just the right shade of sky-blue or violet satin for the lining of a black jacket stems from exactly the same impulse that makes me tinker happily with a sentence all afternoon, changing adjectives and moving clauses around until it’s just right. Then, too: I so enjoy looking at other people’s clothes that it seems only proper to take a little care with my own. As Isabella Blow so famously said: “My style icon is anyone who makes a bloody effort.”
Sensitive and Powerful: An Interview with Donna Tartt by Florence Welch featured in Rookie Yearbook Four edited by Tavi Gevinson, 2015 (via oftwodarkmoons)
my mom taught me the therapeutic power of cleaning. open all the windows. throw out the old. wipe down the entire house. burn some incense. roast some coffee. then rest. that way the tears from last night don’t feel as heavy.
She just wanted you to clean the house
2019 we filling our pockets, bras and anything else with rose quartz, shoving sprigs of rosemary behind our ears and wholeheartedly loving ourselves
Witch’s bevarage
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Death in Paradise is a great TV programme because it is one of the few murder mystery dramas to have cheerful music, a lizard named Harry, and exchanges like this:
“We’ve got a dead body half way up a volcano.”
“Really? Well this calls for some socks.”