Another life again

My name is Kervin. I write here.

[thedorseyshawexperience]

[jennytrout]

This is the only story about a haunted sword where the haunted sword is the least interesting part of the story.

[drakebarmitzva]

this exact article as a 2015 aesthetic

[crybabydyke-deactivated20180227]

petition to change the pride flag to pastel colors because that shit is easier on the eyes

[crybabydyke-deactivated20180227]

[carry-on-my-wayward-butt]

✞☯follow for more soft homo☯✞

[thisusedtoberum-deactivated2017]

[alexander]

STOP

[sosuperawesome]

Sew Wanderlust by Teresa Lim

[sixpenceee]

The Museum of Broken Relationships is a museum in Zagreb, Croatia, dedicated to failed love relationships. Its exhibits include personal objects left over from former lovers, accompanied by brief descriptions.

(Source)

[otravida-otravez]

1st year French: Bonjour, je m'appele Dane. J'habite au Texas!

translation: Hello, my name is Dane. I live in Texas!

1st year Latin: Gaius se in altum cum audacia eiecit. Nam vitam servare consulis conabatur, magnam arbitrans se gloriam capturum esse. Quod post factum fortissimum misere periit.

translation: Gaius expelled himself into the depths of the sea with great audacity. For he was trying to save a life of a consul, judging that he himself would capture great glory. After this bravest deed he died miserably.

[sodomymcscurvylegs]

When your Capricorn friend is being problematic:

[otravida-otravez]

Of course it is there. Always, tucked in the seams, sewn shut, the endings that happen. How one writes the end of a novel. "Tears fell on the last night we drank together. I should have said otherwise but to inflict one last pain again, o how it should end with cheers!" And it is there, pain as it should be felt. Closed, in secret, wounds we only lick without the other. Pains we nurse in solitude. Beers we held on to, ice cubes melt, no one drinks for the taste. We count spare change, give a little tip, bid the bar farewell. No one talks about their endings. No bottles tip the last drink, this night and many others will follow. And again, the bitterness. The sad slew of sappy poems. The spotify playlist. The status updates. The changes and undressing that cyberspace permits. This is our ending. A stupid facebook post, saying that it is still there but can never be. A goodbye of sorts woven together with the many posts like it lost in the sad sad web all of us weave in the internet. How this generation created this continuity, how our stories endure their endings within and without ourselves. But I see you online, the only way I know you are still there, between the hours of waking and not so, the green dot just because. Clinging to cyberspace.The space not quite there, the omniscience, our all-knowing, our relationships end in a multitude of possible connections, in fiber optic wires, in busy street lights, on a night we chose to end in separate cab rides, disconnections in busy streets, and once again online.

[traumaturity]

Astronomers report: for perhaps 2 billion   years, a black hole has been singing.

Kate Angus, from “Theosophy”  (via elucipher)

[stupidfuckingquestions]

[beigetype]

Art, 2015

[fleurdulys]

[mynameisstacystacy-blog]

[figma-deactivated20161222]

[rabbit-light]

Just because you fell in love with the river doesn’t mean you must feed it your bones. You can take new lovers. Wine, for instance. And bread. Difficult shoes. Little blue pills. The first boy’s knife. The bowie, the buck, the chef’s. Switch, pocket, butcher, butter. You can submerge in a hotel bath, drainage ditch, Newton Creek, East River. The sea. Eat the whole pan of lasagna. The entire box of Thin Mints. You can go down in mimosas. You can lose yourself in Clifton, or Sexton, Walker, Hooks, Rich, Atwood. Or Hughes. Even the boxer whose poems sewed you shut. Whose hands pulled you from the red red tub. The boy who became boxer who became man who became poet who became husband. Yes, you can love the river. The knife. The pills. The wine. You can love a thousand lonelinesses. You can love the man and each of his hands. Love the brine and the meat and all the tiny ruins.

“Polyamory, With Knives,” Jeanann Verlee  (via commovente)

[lohanthony-deactivated20210629]

Kill Bill Vol. 1 (2003)

[michelle-bee]

[im-the-doctor-basically-run]

True happiness exists and it is a piglet eating ice cream at a mini picnic table under a mini umbrella.

[sxctogether-deactivated20150409]

I just fell in love