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booksactually:

“You are beautiful, but you are empty. One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you — the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three that we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or ever sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose.” - The Little Prince

(via lzbthwlsn)

I learned there’s nothing more shaming
or as memorable as an intimacy
unreturned. And turned, therefore,
to the expected silence of a page,


where I might simultaneously assert
and hide, be my own disappointment,
which saved me for a while.
But soon the page whispered


I’d mistaken its vastness for a refuge,
its whiteness for a hospital
for the pathetic. Fill me up, it said,
give me sorrow because I must have joy,


all the travails of love because
distances are where the safe reside.
Bring to me, it said, continual proof
you’ve been alive.

– Stephen Dunn, from “Turning to the Page”  (via litverve)
pornogrinder:

clawtheclouds:

hexed-melting-flesh:

ircimages:

The people of Mexico were lined up along the streets to see the Pope. This little guy thought otherwise.

rather look at him than the pope.

^True statement.

MY HEART CANNOT TAKE THIS 

pornogrinder:

clawtheclouds:

hexed-melting-flesh:

ircimages:

The people of Mexico were lined up along the streets to see the Pope. This little guy thought otherwise.

rather look at him than the pope.

^True statement.

MY HEART CANNOT TAKE THIS 

(via peeves)

Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation.
Graham Greene (via tylersigh)

(Source: thechocolatebrigade, via rust-and-wishbones)

[Flash 10 is required to watch video]

booksactually:

“You are beautiful, but you are empty. One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you — the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three that we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or ever sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose.” - The Little Prince

(via lzbthwlsn)

I learned there’s nothing more shaming
or as memorable as an intimacy
unreturned. And turned, therefore,
to the expected silence of a page,


where I might simultaneously assert
and hide, be my own disappointment,
which saved me for a while.
But soon the page whispered


I’d mistaken its vastness for a refuge,
its whiteness for a hospital
for the pathetic. Fill me up, it said,
give me sorrow because I must have joy,


all the travails of love because
distances are where the safe reside.
Bring to me, it said, continual proof
you’ve been alive.

– Stephen Dunn, from “Turning to the Page”  (via litverve)
pornogrinder:

clawtheclouds:

hexed-melting-flesh:

ircimages:

The people of Mexico were lined up along the streets to see the Pope. This little guy thought otherwise.

rather look at him than the pope.

^True statement.

MY HEART CANNOT TAKE THIS 

pornogrinder:

clawtheclouds:

hexed-melting-flesh:

ircimages:

The people of Mexico were lined up along the streets to see the Pope. This little guy thought otherwise.

rather look at him than the pope.

^True statement.

MY HEART CANNOT TAKE THIS 

(via peeves)

allthingseurope:

Mannheim, Germany
by aremac)

allthingseurope:

Mannheim, Germany

by aremac)

(via rust-and-wishbones)

Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation.
Graham Greene (via tylersigh)

(Source: thechocolatebrigade, via rust-and-wishbones)

leilockheart:

more photos here

leilockheart:

more photos here

(via leilockheart)

(via pasdamour)

"

I learned there’s nothing more shaming
or as memorable as an intimacy
unreturned. And turned, therefore,
to the expected silence of a page,


where I might simultaneously assert
and hide, be my own disappointment,
which saved me for a while.
But soon the page whispered


I’d mistaken its vastness for a refuge,
its whiteness for a hospital
for the pathetic. Fill me up, it said,
give me sorrow because I must have joy,


all the travails of love because
distances are where the safe reside.
Bring to me, it said, continual proof
you’ve been alive.

"
"Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation."

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