priceofpleasantry reblogged
Source: Flickr / thisamericanlife
priceofpleasantry reblogged
priceofpleasantry reblogged
For a moment I wondered if I were not going to love humanity. But, after all, it was their Sunday, not mine.
Sartre, Nausea
priceofpleasantry reblogged
cy twombly
priceofpleasantry reblogged
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
Pablo Neruda, “If You Forget Me” (via misswallflower)
priceofpleasantry reblogged
Honey, I’m just trying to find my way to you.
Gregory Alan Isakov | “Suitcase Full of Sparks” (via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)
priceofpleasantry reblogged
Month by month things are losing their hardness; even my body now lets light through; my spine is soft like wax near the flame of the candle. I dream; I dream.
~ Virginia Woolf, The Waves (via conflictingheart)
priceofpleasantry reblogged
Dan Estabrook – Nine Symptoms, 2004
priceofpleasantry reblogged
violentwavesofemotion-deactivat
Excuse the dream, the flashlights and the heaviness, excuse the soul with all its explosive tendencies, excuse the sublime atrocities of the mind…
Anne Sexton, from The Complete Poems (via fleurstains)
priceofpleasantry reblogged
oneartman
Milton H.Greene, Marlene Dietrich,1952
priceofpleasantry reblogged
And as much as I wanted to write, I wanted to be written about too.
(via lmaoooo)
priceofpleasantry reblogged
Thinking has, many a time, made me sad, darling; but doing never did in all my life…My precept is, “Do something, my sister, do good if you can; but, at any rate, do something.”
Elizabeth Gaskell, “North and South” (via misswallflower)
priceofpleasantry reblogged
Source: personalmessageblog.blogspot.ae
priceofpleasantry reblogged
I don’t know what they are called, the spaces between seconds - but I think of you always in those intervals.
~ Salvador Plascencia (via conflictingheart)
priceofpleasantry reblogged
I waited for my life to start
for years, standing at bus stops
looking into the curved distance
thinking each bus was the wrong bus;
or lost in books where I would travel
without luggage from one page
to another; where the only breeze
was the rustle of pages turning,
and lives rose and set
in the violent colors of suns.
Linda Pastan,“Waiting for My Life” (via misswallflower)