So bad at texting it feels like war

roma★
One Nice Bug Per Day
Claire Keane
cherry valley forever
No title available

No title available

if i look back, i am lost
Today's Document
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
sheepfilms
No title available
almost home

⁂
will byers stan first human second

@theartofmadeline

pixel skylines
NASA
Monterey Bay Aquarium
styofa doing anything
Not today Justin
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States

seen from Türkiye

seen from Malaysia
seen from Israel

seen from United States

seen from Italy

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Singapore

seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
seen from Philippines
seen from United States
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seen from Malaysia

seen from Germany
@paralysisviaanalysis
So bad at texting it feels like war
Jordan Sullivan
I hate taylor swift
aura
ohhhh i see. (does not see)
I have to do something drastic. Well maybe I don't but that's how I feel
I KNOW LOVE IS REAL BECAUSE IM FULL OF IT
What a blessing to be moved by anything at all
i love a fog. i love a woods.
experiencing thought. not a fan
Where do you see yourself in 5 years?
Look buddy, i’m just trying to make it to Friday.
reblog if its friday and you made it
Central to the film is a reclamation of the Orpheus myth, a version of which the three young women read aloud together one night. Sophie registers distress at Orpheus’s fatal, selfish incompetence in looking back at Eurydice when he was told not to, and Marianne suggests he may have done it on purpose, preferring to lose the woman and savor, instead, the romance of his grief, making not “the lover’s choice, but the poet’s.” But it’s Héloïse who removes, for once, the fixation on Orpheus, his failings, and his loss. What if, she says to Marianne with an edge of defiance, it was Eurydice herself who chose art over staying together, who rather than leave the underworld with Orpheus, stopped and called out “Turn around,” preferring to remain down there and be preserved in poetry. A kind of freedom and a kind of permanence, rather than, as eighteenth-century marriage looks to be, an unwilling exchange of one for the other. — In Portrait of a Lady on Fire, Love is a Work of Art