North American Purgatory, Marc Trujillo
oh my…. god

if i look back, i am lost
hello vonnie
Sade Olutola

Kaledo Art
No title available

shark vs the universe
Cosimo Galluzzi
will byers stan first human second
DEAR READER

★

No title available
sheepfilms

Product Placement
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

Discoholic 🪩
AnasAbdin
Three Goblin Art

oozey mess

PR's Tumblrdome

izzy's playlists!
seen from Germany
seen from Thailand
seen from United States

seen from Türkiye

seen from Germany

seen from Indonesia

seen from Vietnam

seen from Germany
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from Israel

seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
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@winkwonked
North American Purgatory, Marc Trujillo
oh my…. god
Extraordinary photos of young hitchhikers and freight train hoppers by Mike Brodie
Mike Brodie (tumblr | facebook) first began photographing in 2004 when he was given a Polaroid camera. Working under the moniker, The Polaroid Kidd, Brodie spent the next four years circumambulating the U.S. amassing an archive of photographs that would go on to make up one of the few, true collections of American travel photography. Having never undergone any formal training, he chose to remained untethered to the pressures and expectations of the art market
Every time I see this series my jaw drops. Awesome stuff.
Don’t be afraid of death; be afraid of an unlived life. You don’t have to live forever, you just have to live.
Natalie Babbitt, Tuck Everlasting (via angerr)
This is deep, man
one of the greatest piece of information taught to me in life was from a fucking deranged talking baboon
that’s life right there
Hiroko Momose
There was Pegasus
The Morning After I Killed Myself
The morning after I killed myself, I woke up.
I made myself breakfast in bed. I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese and bacon sandwich. I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass. I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and rinsed the butter off the counter. I washed the dishes and folded the towels.
The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with the boy down the street or the middle school principal. Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current. With my brother who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed.
The morning after I killed myself, I walked the dog. I watched the way her tail twitched when a bird flew by or how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat. I saw the empty space in her eyes when she reached a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch but saw nothing but sky in my place. I stood by as strangers stroked her muzzle and she wilted beneath their touch like she did once for mine.
The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the neighbors’ yard where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old and examined how they were already fading. I picked a few daylilies and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with the news of my death. I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication.
The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up. Each orange tree opened like a hand and the kid down the street pointed out a single red cloud to his mother.
The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her. I told her about the avocados and the stepping stones, the river and her parents. I told her about the sunsets and the dog and the beach.
The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but couldn’t finish what I started.
Thank you for writing this. I hope it saves lives.
The following is the official statement to be read by President Nixon in case the astronauts were stranded on the Moon.
i think about this a lot
If you tuck the name of a loved one under your tongue too long without speaking it it becomes blood.
Naomi Shihab Nye, “Hidden,” Fuel (BOA Editions, Ltd., 1998)
Emotion, Nobuhiko Ōbayashi (1966)
this song makes me so happy
u kno when u hear the first 5 seconds and ur just like awya
THIS IS SERIOUSLY THE BEST PLEASE LISTEN
Places where reality is a bit altered:
• any target • churches in texas • abandoned 7/11’s • your bedroom at 5 am • hospitals at midnight • warehouses that smell like dust • lighthouses with lights that don’t work anymore • empty parking lots • ponds and lakes in suburban neighborhoods • rooftops in the early morning • inside a dark cabinet
playgrounds at night
rest stops on highways
deep in the mountains
early in the morning wherever it’s just snowed
trails by the highway just out of earshot of traffic
schools during breaks
those little beaches right next to ferry docks
bowling alleys
unfamiliar mcdonalds on long roadtrips
your friends living room once everybody but you is asleep
laundromats at midnight
what the fuck
galeries in art museums that are empty except for you
the lighting section of home depot
stairwells
•hospital waiting rooms •airports from midnight to 7am • bathrooms in small concert venues
I just got the weirdest feeling I swear
Milk.
found this lil number in a by-the-pound bin this morning.
“Everybody’s born with some different thing at the core of their existence. And that thing, whatever it is, becomes like a heat source that runs each person from the inside. I have one too, of course. Like everybody else. But sometimes it gets out of hand. It swells or shrinks inside me, and it shakes me up. What I’d really like to do is find a way to communicate that feeling to another person. But I can’t seem to do it. They just don’t get it. Of course, the problem could be that I’m not explaining it very well, but I think it’s because they’re not listening very well. They pretend to be listening, but they’re not, really. So I get worked up sometimes, and I do some crazy things.”
Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle (via jadedgemini14)