[twitchmarie44-deactivated201902]

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

Wild, distracted, sick, I counted, counted all the ways love hurt me. One life, I thought–a thousand deaths.

Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, from “Love Opened a Mortal Wound,” c. 1672 (via violentwavesofemotion)

[back-then]

Motorcycle patrol in Central Park New York City 1931

[back-then]

Navy pilots test their steadiness and muscular coordination in Corpus Christi, Texas. Photograph by the U.S. Navy

[forestrolli]

Bear, 25cm x 19cm, etching & aquatint, by Linda Piekäinen (link on her art page)

[historicaltimes]

1974: Richard Nixon’s resignation speech, from Lafayette Park. The journalist in the center is surrounded by crowds who could see Nixon on the same TV set that he was using as a monitor.

via reddit

[antigonick]

There’s time here to love slowly.

Jeanette Winterson, The Passion (via antigonick)

[fuckindiva]

Deception (1946)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

You know my desire. I have only one. It has your face and your form and the term of my life.

Colette, from a letter to Henry de Jouvenel written c. November 1912 (via violentwavesofemotion)

[blackpeoplefashion]

not to be dramatic but frank ocean deserves to be in an art museum

[semioticapocalypse]

Weegee. New Years, Stuyvesant Casino. ca. 1945

[::SemAp Twitter || SemAp::]

[luthienne]

But how mortal I am. How earthly love penetrates me.

Clarice Lispector, from An Apprenticeship, or The Book of Delights (via histhory)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

I felt and let them call me crazy  that from nothing comes Paradise.

Odysseus Elytis, from The Collected Poems; “Three Times The Truth,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

[inosanteria-deactivated20181125]

[wasted-our-time-away]

Summertime (La Belle Saison) / 2015 dir. Catherine Corsini

[bostonpoetryslam]

Desire doesn’t aspire to anything other than itself— I don’t miss so-&-so, just being seen in that way, just having an unholy place to rest, set all this down

Alina Pleskova, “Re:Eros,” published in The American Poetry Review (via bostonpoetryslam)

[lesflesh]

“All in this world has broken. All that’s left is silence. (Leave me in this field weeping.)”

— Federico García Lorca, “La Soleá,” Lorca: Selected Poems (via tristealven)