AI-generated concept stills of Brad Pitt as President John F. Kennedy.
Something I’ve always wanted to see for my historical fiction script.
h

Kiana Khansmith
AnasAbdin
we're not kids anymore.
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
d e v o n
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

@theartofmadeline
Keni

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
wallacepolsom
ojovivo
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Claire Keane
RMH
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@cwestwriter
AI-generated concept stills of Brad Pitt as President John F. Kennedy.
Something I’ve always wanted to see for my historical fiction script.

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No writing is wasted. Did you know that sourdough from San Francisco is leavened partly by a bacteria called lactobacillus sanfrancisensis? It is native to the soil there, and does not do well elsewhere. But any kitchen can become an ecosystem. If you bake a lot, your kitchen will become a happy home to wild yeasts, and all your bread will taste better. Even a failed loaf is not wasted. Likewise, cheese makers wash the dairy floor with whey. Tomato gardeners compost with rotten tomatoes. No writing is wasted: the words you can’t put in your book can wash the floor, live in the soil, lurk around in the air. They will make the next words better.
ERIN BOW (via garnetglitter)
Ooh. I like this metaphor.
(via drst)
evandale ♥
(via gaslightgallows)
Singles (1992) dir. by Cameron Crowe
Rainy day.
Art is supposed to reflect your journey through real life.
Charlotte Eriksson, Empty Roads & Broken Bottles; in search for The Great Perhaps (via loveage-moondream)

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Holy moly. I cannot believe I got this little grunge god done by the one and only Shannon Perry. I couldn’t help but do it. I’ll love him forever.
Thank you for everything. We will miss you forever.
Mugshot of John Wojtowicz who was sentenced to 20 years in prison for robbing a bank in order to fund his partners sex change. August 23rd 1972, New York
via reddit
the only good lgbt ally
also when they made dog day afternoon and bought the rights to his story he used the money to help fund edens surgery so he ended up able to help after all (after serving six years in prison for the heist)
other great facts:
- he based his bank robbery plan off The Godfather and Al Pacino ended up playing him and John Cazale played his accomplice - referred to himself as ‘the gay Babe Ruth’ - when he got out of jail he applied for a job as a security guard at the same bank with a T-shirt that said ‘I robbed this bank’ and put Al Pacino down as a reference - the robbery attempt was broadcast on TV and a crowd of LGBTQ activists came to cheer him on
Vicky’s open letter to Chris Cornell
Do you guys remember the dream that Chris had about Layne? It just totally breaks my heart 😢
Posted on 10/13/2008 The essence of a dream can follow you all day long. Sometimes two or three days. I have had dreams as a little kid that I remember like they were yesterday, though as time goes on these dream are sometimes hard to tell from actual events as they survive in my memory. I am fascinated with the essence factor of dreams, period. They are as real as the essence felt from the ambience of an actual place, like a house you grew up in. Your favourite bar, or your school. The first Christmas tree you see every year, the smell of it, and especially songs. Some feelings these environments evoke are awful, some magical. All of them completely real. Real enough that numerous cultures throughout history have believed that the dream world is every bit as important and substantial and a vital part of human life as the conscious state. Some mysticisms actually look at the world of dreams as being the “true and only world” and everything else an illusion. For my money, if you put an ice pick through your hand, I think it will prove to be a pretty fucking good illusion. Last night I had a dream that has been following me all day like a sick dog. I was in a hotel near the house I grew up in. I was in a cafe that happened to be the lunch court of my elementary school. Various friends from my past were walking up and talking to me. In the middle of this scene walks Layne Staley. He looked much like he did the first time I met him. Shoulder length hair, clean shaved. Clear eyed and looking about 20 years old. I was so happy. Confused a little, but in a dream like this, I just wanted to accept the idea that there was some mistake and he was alive and well. He seemed happy and said was working on some new music project. I woke up not long after that with the feeling that I had really just talked to him and he was somewhere doing just fine. My next thought was one that has plagued me for years. Sitting in Kelly Curtis’ living room with about 30 people, all sobbing. We had just come from Andy Wood’s extra weird funeral-wake thing at the Paramount Theatre. It had these new age overtones that didn’t fit Andy’s life at all. There was an amazing film of Andy with Mother Love Bone band mates. All of Andy’s friends and family were there, mixed with a bunch of fans who I didn’t like but knew Andy would have loved. The fans went home. His friends went to Kelly’s. We were crammed in a smallish living room with people sitting on every available surface. Couch arms, end tables, the floor. I was leaning on the back of one of the couches that face away from the rest of the room and toward the front door. I remember Andy’s girlfriend looking at everyone and saying “This is just like La Bamba” then suddenly I heard slapping footsteps growing louder and louder as they reached the front door and Layne flew in, completely breaking down and crying so deeply that he looked truly frightened and lost. Very child like. He looked up at everyone at once and I had this sudden urge to run over and grab him and give him a big hug and tell him everything was going to be OK. Kelly has always had a way of making everyone feel like everything will turn out great. That the world isn’t ending. That’s why we were at his place. I wanted to be that person for Layne, maybe just because he needed it so bad. I wasn’t. I didn’t get up in front of the room and offer that and I still regret it. No one else did either. I don’t know why. Years later, at Layne’s funeral, I was angry. I kept hearing the “twice as bright, half as long” speech and the “he was just too special for this world” nonsense that I had heard at so many other funerals for so many other friends that were so young and talented. I’m not sure why I was that angry. Angry at Layne? Angry at all my other friends for leaving me? Angry at the people running around in circles saying “I knew him best” or “I was the only one he really trusted”, angry at all of them for squandering what I thought of as brilliant futures that would make the world feel to me like a place worth living? Or maybe I was just mad at myself because he was dead, and one time I had a chance to pick him up, dust him off and let him know that there was a person who cared about how much pain he was in and I didn’t do it. If I ever run into him in a dream again, I hope I remember to apologise. Night all. Sweet dreams. C

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Andy Wood was another universe.
Kurt Cobain was another planet.
Layne Staley and Mike Starr were another country.
Chris Cornell feels like my backyard.
The world feels like it’s getting smaller and these are feeling less like shiny mystical beings and more like people I know and care about. And that’s not just sad, it’s paralyzingly terrifying.
Natalie Merchant - My Skin
I’m a slow dying flower Frost killing hour The sweet turning sour And untouchable
I need The darkness The sweetness The sadness The weakness I need this
Yesterday was a really emotionally taxing day, and naturally, that has only carried on into today. I don’t think I ever would have thought he would be gone so soon, or perhaps ever. I was sort of hoping he would live forever.
Like a lot of the quotes I have read so far about the passing of a loved musician, this kind of ache hurts something fierce. I am relating this to the true ending of childhood, when you have grown up on someone’s voice, someone’s music, and then all of a sudden they’re gone as you’re at the cusp of adulthood. There will be no more of their music to act as sanctuary or soundtracks to new memories or pastimes. So Abrupt. Shock. Heartache–never-ending heartache, it seems, because this death will always burn.
I am pouring out an enormous amount of love and light to Chris’ family and those close to him, those that hailed him, those that will miss him. Of course, I never knew him, but goodness, what a beautiful human being he proved to be.
Deep peace, Chris. We all loved you so well.
“And if you don’t believe the sun will rise, stand alone and greet the coming night in the last remaining light.” Rest In Peace, Chris. We miss you already.
Jerry

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“She has an aura to her that’s extremely powerful.“
— Mick Fleetwood
Today in Music - March 14th, 1995
Mad Season releases their album Above on Columbia Records and Collective Soul releases their second album Collective Soul on Atlantic Records