PARADISE IS FOR UNICORNS

[paradiseisforunicorns]

Delirious Daisy

.

couldn't stop spinning her head 

.

around and around

[visual-poetry]

art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.

banksy (via visual-poetry)

[nevver]

@TechnicallyRon used Google autocomplete to write a dating profile.

[nevver]

Meltdown, Simone Rosenbauer

[nevver]

Grow where you’re planted

[nevver]

Her smoke rose up forever, Josephine Cardin

[nevver]

Kill me

[pugking-deactivated20200807]

[visual-poetry]

»most americans« by zach urbina (+)

[nevver]

Over the Moon

[nevver]

How much does *what* cost?

[nevver]

The best place to be is somewhere else.

[paradiseisforunicorns]

And art, whether writing or painting or music—art, in whatever man-made form—unifies the split mind, I think, and brings us in direct contact with the other, where we might recognize ourselves and feel love and empathy, compassion, understanding, patience, hope. - David Gilbert

http://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/rear-window

[paradiseisforunicorns]

“I’m not totally mad at you. I’m just sad. You’re all locked up in that little world of yours, and when I try knocking on the door, you just sort of look up for a second and go right back inside.”

Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami

[paradiseisforunicorns]

"Ships that pass in the night"

still from I May Have Lost Forever My Umbrella by Johan Grimonprez

[paradiseisforunicorns]

Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.

Kafka on the shore by Haruki Murakami

[pukeprince-blog]

[paradiseisforunicorns]

but thanks anyway