I’m sort of going through some things at the moment
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
|—||Rainer Maria Rilke, The Book of Hours (via goghst)|
|—||Nina LaCour, Hold Still (via californiagirlwearingpearls)|
We almost dated is such a sad relationship to have with someone. Almost is such a weird title to own. As if you almost could have tasted his lips and you are almost pretty sure they taste like pink roses. And he almost loved you back and was ready to water your dry ribs and plant flowers in between your lungs.
Almost has become a habit for me. I never really possessed something entirely, and so when I tell you that I am hungry and that I need more than a taste… you have to understand that I have been starving for eras.
Almost is all I know and I wish it wasn’t like this. I want possession and cold pure nights of nothing but the drunken taste of love in my mouth, in my throat, in my veins, in my brain, and in my blood.
I almost had you. Almost.
petition for the next companion to not be a white girl in her 20s who crushes on the Doctor
petition for the next companion to be a grumpy chinese-american grandma who complains about plot-holes and knits the doctor horrific time-travel-themed sweaters to wear when she thinks it’s cold out (most of the time)
reblogging because this is the best idea ever
two japanese men walk into a bar. the first japanese man says “i am japanese!” the second japanese man says “i am also japanese!” the bartender then says “well, hey. i’m japanese too”.
the bar was in japan.
must be why everyone is speaking in english
this is a dubbed text post
the manga was better
These, for me, are the two most depressing paintings in western history. They were painted by post-impressionist Henry de Toulouse-Lautrec, a man who, due to inbreeding, was born with a genetic disorder that prevented his legs from growing after they were broken. After being so thoroughly mocked for is appearance, he became an alcoholic, which is what eventually caused his institutionalization and death. His only known romantic relations were with prostitutes.
And then he paints something like this which is so beautiful and tender and sentimental. It seems like the couple in bed really loves each other—cares about each other. Wakes up happy to look at each other. And I see that love and passion and I wonder how lonely he must have been. I wonder how he could paint something like this without it breaking his heart.
Maybe they say artists should create what they know, not because its unbelievable when they extend themselves beyond their experiences, but because when they pull it off with such elegance, it’s so damn unbearable to look at. I hate thinking of Lautrec, wondering about the lovers he created and knowing it was beyond his experience. Creating something that he knows is beautiful and knows he’ll never really understand.