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kaitrokowski:

Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.

(via bridgettmidgett)

Till 3005.

(Source: zaminizjammin, via fuckyeah-childishgambino)

doxycatreveries:

Solvang. Wine Country. Magic.

doxycatreveries:

The Victorian Mansion. 6/29/14

Two years of love, loyalty, and friendship.

Where lovers rejoice.

austinkleon:

Jorge Luis Borges: The Task of Art

The task of art is to transform what is continuously happening to us, to transform all these things into symbols, into music, into something which can last in man’s memory. That is our duty. If we don’t fulfill it, we feel unhappy. A writer or any artist has the sometimes joyful duty to transform all that into symbols. These symbols could be colors, forms or sounds. For a poet, the symbols are sounds and also words, fables, stories, poetry. The work of a poet never ends. It has nothing to do with working hours. Your are continuously receiving things from the external world. These must be transformed, and eventually will be transformed. This revelation can appear anytime. A poet never rests. He’s always working, even when he dreams. Besides, the life of a writer, is a lonely one. You think you are alone, and as the years go by, if the stars are on your side, you may discover that you are at the center of a vast circle of invisible friends whom you will never get to know but who love you. And that is an immense reward.

Thx @robinsloan

(via whowouldnthave)

"I hated labels anyway. People didn’t fit in slots—prostitute, housewife, saint—like sorting the mail. We were so mutable, fluid with fear and desire, ideals and angles, changeable as water."

— Janet Fitch, White Oleander  (via fleurstains)

(via angearia)

"I want to be like water. I want to slip through fingers, but hold up a ship."

— Michelle Williams in an interview for ELLE (via feellng)

(via davesingh)

astonishingx:

Cyclops and White Queen by Aleksi Briclot

Emma Frost with the all seeing Cyclops.

(Source: jtsar)

I want the pain. It’s how I learn. I was instrumental in the destruction of humanity, but at the same time I learned, because…because I fell in love…with a human man, and he was mortal and fallible. And he had this incredible pride in himself. He thought he knew everything there was to know. And I loved him, with my whole heart. And then one day, I realized I wouldn’t have him forever. I understood what I’d done. How I betrayed him and humanity. And that pain taught me to understand death. Baltar could die. And I loved him. Baltar’s heart was ephemeral. Baltar’s body was fragile in my hands.

(Source: skylerwhite)