Honestly
I don’t even know what happened.
wallacepolsom

tannertan36
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
Three Goblin Art

PR's Tumblrdome
Keni
One Nice Bug Per Day
todays bird
Mike Driver

d e v o n
Monterey Bay Aquarium
almost home

Janaina Medeiros
Today's Document
Cosimo Galluzzi
Claire Keane

roma★

ellievsbear

if i look back, i am lost

seen from United States
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@fffxhermitage
Honestly
I don’t even know what happened.

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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The End is in sight
Today was well spent.
Tea time, know your teas

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Shogun Assassin, Andrew Archer
What we’re watching
Are we going to talk about the episode where the tubby toast machine malfunctions and spews tubby toast everywhere and these fuckers party like look at them your toast machine busted ass and you’re rolling around in smiley bread my entire life

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Tiki F. Baby
I only miss her when im sober. Its not often.
Doprah // Do I Wanna Know (Arctic Monkeys cover)
nasturtiums and cucumber(companion planting)
mostly nature

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
I choked on a metaphor. I tried to write a poem to say what I was thinking. I tried to write about that night as though it weren’t quite so symbolic, convincing myself jazz music was just music and lamplight was just fluorescent, tungsten if I’m feeling romantic, and that stumbling into your arms wasn’t a sign of something summer-like. But I was a poet before I could speak sentences and I fashioned finger paints from crushed sonnets, wringing out their color to test on parchment paper. This was my birthright. When I opened up my skin to see the inside I was looking for the cure to writer’s block and nothing more. I wasn’t ever one to worry about. I want to be the sane one, to say something about you that doesn’t turn me into walking symbolism. I want to stop enjambing my body to have time to press it into yours. But I’m stuck on a metaphor, dressed in villanelles and iambs. I’m dying of this disease.
"Portrait of the Poet as a Terminal Patient" by M.E.S. (via ecrivanity)