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— Ocean Vuong, Because It’s Summer

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Art by Serafino Macchiati (1861-1916)

galina

My favourite of Rodin’s works were the hand fragments. There were so many, some broken off and discarded from larger works like the Gates of Hell, others as studies for poses and casts. Hands are my favourite of all the body’s shapes, with their endless, endless holding

csms-jpg

Some stars from my journals

pumpkinsevmem-deactivated202312

— lana del rey, from cinnamon girl; norman fucking rockwell! (2019)

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capacity

ill never win an idgaf war love disarms me completely and im bleeding out

if i could, i'd melt the ice of your innocence with the heat of my kisses

#i'm high

desmadrechic

Rosamund Pike in the book Bond on Set: Filming Die Another Day

neo-catharsis

Sátántangó, Béla Tarr, 1994

malglories

“It’s a strange grief… to die of nostalgia for something you never lived.“”

— Alessandro Baricco (via transcendent-sol)

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gothamguts-moved83747365

something about the act of kissing someone's hands or even just pressing your lips against their knuckles as some form of desperation is *gunshot sound* *ambulance sirens* *people screaming* *buildings falling down* to me

sliversoakley4

i need to stand ankle deep in a creek about this

communistkenobi

so cool how talking to people you love makes you feel less insane

weltenwellen

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

derangedrhythms

And when he kissed my neck I bit him long and hard on the cheek, and when we came out of the room, blood was running down his face. His poem “I did it, I.” Such violence, and I can see how women lie down for artists. The one man in the room who was as big as his poems, huge, with bulk and dynamic chunks of words; his poems are strong and blasting like a high wind in steel girders. And I screamed in myself, thinking: oh, to give myself crashing, fighting, to you.

Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath c. 1956

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darkerangels

toramona

maryolive

Lighthousekeeping by Jeanette Winterson

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