spark by irreplaceable spark

a world away

[misswallflower]

[misswallflower]

[punlovsin]

The ocean’s heart too smooth, too blue, to break for you.

Emily Dickinson, from Shipwreck (via punlovsin)

[priceofpleasantry]

For a moment I wondered if I were not going to love humanity. But, after all, it was their Sunday, not mine.

Sartre, Nausea

[twelve-sixteen]

cy twombly

[misswallflower]

Well, now, if little by little you stop loving me I shall stop loving you little by little. If suddenly you forget me do not look for me, for I shall already have forgotten you.

Pablo Neruda, “If You Forget Me” (via misswallflower)

[allthetreesofthefield]

Honey, I’m just trying to find my way to you.

Gregory Alan Isakov | “Suitcase Full of Sparks”  (via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)

[hereislight]

Month by month things are losing their hardness; even my body now lets light through; my spine is soft like wax near the flame of the candle. I dream; I dream.

~ Virginia Woolf, The Waves (via conflictingheart)

[free-parking-blog]

Dan Estabrook – Nine Symptoms, 2004

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

Excuse the dream, the flashlights and the heaviness, excuse the soul with all its explosive tendencies, excuse the sublime atrocities of the mind…

Anne Sexton, from The Complete Poems (via fleurstains)

[zzzze]

[oneartman]

Milton H.Greene, Marlene Dietrich,1952

[fucktional-characters]

And as much as I wanted to write, I wanted to be written about too.

(via lmaoooo)

[misswallflower]

Thinking has, many a time, made me sad, darling; but doing never did in all my life…My precept is, “Do something, my sister, do good if you can; but, at any rate, do something.”

Elizabeth Gaskell, “North and South” (via misswallflower)

[nevver]

Memories

[saddest-summer]

I don’t know what they are called, the spaces between seconds - but I think of you always in those intervals.

~ Salvador Plascencia (via conflictingheart)

[rachelemartignoniportfolio]

[misswallflower]

I waited for my life to start for years, standing at bus stops looking into the curved distance thinking each bus was the wrong bus; or lost in books where I would travel without luggage from one page to another; where the only breeze was the rustle of pages turning, and lives rose and set in the violent colors of suns.

Linda Pastan,“Waiting for My Life” (via misswallflower)