[fatalplants]

[bruno-has-definitely-deactivate]

[inactivedcyog-blog]

[dazmerchant]

Loewe X Howl’s Moving Castle

[animatedtext]

requested by tbh-savi

[flowerytale]

Sylvia Plath, from a letter to Ann Davidow-Goodman, featured in The Letters Of Sylvia Plath Volume I: 1940–1956

[Text ID: I know I’ll always think of you with something like hurt and nostalgia―and a great deal of love.]

[you-photo]

one day

[lotusinjadewell]

Flower vendors of Hanoi. Credit to xigua_nmh.

[weltenwellen]

Mary Oliver, from "Black Oaks", Blue Iris

[beadyeyes]

the vanessa stockard painting is gonna end my life

[schuylerpeck]

we watch the game, reheat the chili from last night. I wait for a prescription, you head out on a run. I lean in to ask for a kiss before the front door closes behind you, and with a sly grin, you blow warm breath between my curls. three weeks sharing the same roof. each day, a dance with something different. a never set routine. I could splay the week out on the kitchen counter like a never-ending paper chain; each fold connected by our mornings, the only thing that remains the same. how dog gets restless in the corner, the neighbor starts up his rusted car. I wake and turn over, to find you ready with open arms.

[honeytuesday]

autumn is really like. i brought you some sunlight from when you were 10. didn't the world feel so bright to you then? i'll drench your hands in syrupy nostalgia, so everything you make is stained bittersweet. i'll ruffle your hair with an ice-kissed breeze--it'll be the kindest touch you've had in years. you finally feel like a part of something grander. i'm the last warm hand you hold before winter surrender.

[nobrashfestivity]

George Morrison

Untitled, 1950

Tempera on paper

[tomclancysfan]

[soledadmirandas-deactivated2023]

where is this energy in the met gala tonight

[blackfemmejeanvaljean]

watching all of us poor and broke tumblr people get geek’d about the met gala and sit in judgement of the rich fucks that refuse to do anything fun with their look reminds me how back in the day the poor would sit in the balcony at the opera and throw rotten fruit if the performance sucked next year I’m starting a gofundme to throw hands with everyone in a plain black tuxedo or a david’s bridal bridesmaid dress

[bookshavepores]

“It is late now, I am a bit tired; the sky is irritated by stars. And I love you, I love you, I love you – and perhaps this is how the whole enormous world, shining all over, can be created – out of five vowels and three consonants.”

— Vladimir Nabokov, from Letters To Vera (via oiseauperdu)