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oh how wrong i have been

lifeinpoetry

I am… a fingerprint on skin the black smoke in your clothes and in your mouth

Sandra Cisneros, from “I the Woman,” My Wicked Wicked Ways (via lifeinpoetry)

amare-habeo

Édouard Pignon (French, 1905-1993)

Reclining Nude (Nu allongé), 1972

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frogsandcrowns

1993 Vincent Van Gogh Museum Ticket in Amsterdam.

artisticmoods

Stasia Burrington

somehow, i love you. i love you more each day and each day you seem more beautiful to me. our differences make it so frustrating, so worth it; i think they might be what tie us together, because despite them, you understand my thoughts better than anyone before. your body is like an island and i feel homesick the nights we aren’t together. this has been the best adventure of my life, one that only seems to be beginning. i couldn’t make poetry out of it, i don’t want to

chanelbagsandcigarettedrags

afadthatlastsforever

I tend to be most interested in the kinds of people who do not sweeten or dilute themselves for the sake of people tastes. Who never soften the blow of who they are. Like my coffee, I prefer the people I connect with to be full-strength and searing hot. And able to rouse my weary, idle heart.

Beau Taplin // B l a c k C o f f e e (via tranquilfern)

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wnq-music

I’m half child half ancient.

Björk (via wooden-folks)

unholyheathen-deactivated201709

Beware the autumn people. For some, autumn comes early, stays late, through life, where October follows September and November touches October and then instead of December and Christ’s birth there is no Bethlehem Star, no rejoicing, but September comes again and old October and so on down the years, with no winter, spring or revivifying summer. For these beings, fall is the only normal season, the only weather, there be no choice beyond. Where do they come from? The dust. Where do they go? The grave. Does blood stir their veins? No, the night wind. What ticks in their head? The worm. What speaks through their mouth? The toad. What sees from their eye? The snake. What hears with their ear? The abyss between the stars. They sift the human storm for souls, eat flesh of reason, fill tombs with sinners. They frenzy forth. In gusts they beetle-scurry, creep, thread, filter, motion, make all moons sullen, and surely cloud all clear-run waters. The spider-web hears them, trembles—breaks. Such are the autumn people.

Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes (1962)e (via amber-and-ice)

currently reading

(via intelligibledirigible)

i think i’m reaching a breaking point.... i want one day, in the middle of the week, to wake up when i want to, curl over with my pillows, stretch my toes, drink my coffee slowly and knit through the morning, and an afternoon full of golden sunshine and walks in the grass. i neeeeeeed a day off, for me