The Latest

birdasaurus:

Espen Grønliveien
Oct 1, 2014 / 116 notes
everlytrue:

[by Alicia Pyne]
Oct 1, 2014 / 87 notes

everlytrue:

[by Alicia Pyne]

(via thesalltwatercure)

Oct 1, 2014 / 14 notes

(via jukavo)

Rain on roof outside window, gray light, deep covers and warm blankets. Rain and nip of autumn in air; nostalgia, itch to work better and bigger. That crisp edge of autumn.
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 26 August 1956 in Paris  (via herkindoftea)

(via jukavo)

Oct 1, 2014 / 2,349 notes
jukavo:

Boubon Tonic
Oct 1, 2014 / 7 notes

jukavo:

Boubon Tonic

He awoke each morning with the desire to do right, to be a good and meaningful person, to be, as simple as it sounded and as impossible as it actually was, happy. And during the course of each day his heart would descend from his chest into his stomach. By early afternoon he was overcome by the feeling that nothing was right, or nothing was right for him, and by the desire to be alone. By evening he was fulfilled: alone in the magnitude of his grief, alone in his aimless guilt, alone even in his loneliness. I am not sad, he would repeat to himself over and over, I am not sad. As if he might one day convince himself. Or fool himself. Or convince others—the only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad. I am not sad. I am not sad. Because his life had unlimited potential for happiness, insofar as it was an empty white room. He would fall asleep with his heart at the foot of his bed, like some domesticated animal that was no part of him at all. And each morning he would wake with it again in the cupboard of his rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping. And by the mid afternoon he was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else, someone else somewhere else. I am not sad.
Sep 29, 2014 / 726 notes
feather-haired:

The Selkie by Kitty-Grimm
Sep 29, 2014 / 8,989 notes
I feel very special about you. I suspect it’s your face…but then, it’s your manner, your intuitive kindness and sensitivity. Ah that isn’t quite…You make me feel like home. You make me feel that the world is not strange. What kinder gift can someone give another one? Is all this mere eloqeunce…or simple humanity…simple love. Love, perhaps, should always be this simple.
Anne Sexton, from a letter to Anthony Hecht, dated May 1961 (via petrichour)

(via petrichour)

Sep 29, 2014 / 884 notes
Sep 29, 2014 / 56 notes

(via resonares)

Sep 29, 2014 / 18,020 notes