— Gustave Flaubert, from a letter to Louise Colet (via letsbelonelytogetherr)
Show & Tell
i don't do bad sauce passes
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izzy's playlists!
Cosimo Galluzzi

Love Begins

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
Three Goblin Art
DEAR READER
Today's Document
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Peter Solarz

Kaledo Art
Sweet Seals For You, Always
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RMH
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@ravensire
— Gustave Flaubert, from a letter to Louise Colet (via letsbelonelytogetherr)
mist curls around my whitened knuckles and tugs. an urgency to return. rooibos bourbon vanilla and the cry of the soul
Lydia Davis, from her book titled "The End of the Story," originally published in 1995
the fact that i'm no longer the same age as the protagonists of novels and films i once connected to is so heartbreaking. there was a time when I looked forward to turning their age. i did. and i also outgrew them. i continue to age, but they don't; never will. the immortality of fiction is beautiful, but cruel.
music writing music music music music writing books poetry music literature fiction music music books books books poetry books love
“I don’t know how to stay silent when my heart is speaking”
Fyodor Dostoevsky (White Nights)
carve my chest and call it art, wield its weapon, look me in the eye and tell me you aren’t threatened
We write down made-up stories to tell the truths we wish we could say out loud.
Yes, yes, moons, lovers, roses—
– Tennessee Williams, from “The Malediction,” Collected Stories (New Directions, 1985)
Haruki Marukami
knot in my platforms, silver needle at the stitching of my throat
time passes so quickly these days, and it terrifies me. how long before it’s all gone? what if we don’t even notice it slip away?
—e.b. // the hands on my clock are spinning
docs don’t hurt anymore, street guitarists make me smile, and aquariums make my heart swell
“you are his (poseidon’s) son!”
“i am sally jackson’s son! she’s the one who cared enough to call herself my mother. she’s the one who got herself killed so that i could be safe here!”
YOU TELL ‘EM PERCY!!!
The stars may behold my tears and the wind drink my sighs, but my thoughts are a sealed treasure which I confide to none.
Mary Shelley, in a journal entry dated September 17th, 1825 featured in “The Journals of Mary Shelley”