"My skin is kind of sort of brownish pinkish yellowish white. My eyes are greyish blueish green, but I’m told they look orange in the night. My hair is reddish blondish brown, but its silver when its wet, and all the colors I am inside have not been invented yet."
Find what you love and let it kill you.
Let it drain you of your all.
Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness.
Let it kill you and let it devour your remains.
For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover."
Charles Bukowski (via exis-tentialist)
"You are not weak just because your heart feels so heavy."
Andrea Gibson, The Nutritionist (via obdormio)
"Make for yourself a world you can believe in.
It sounds simple, I know. But it’s not. Listen, there are a million worlds you could make for yourself. Everyone you know has a completely different one — the woman in 5G, that cab driver over there, you. Sure, there are overlaps, but only in the details. Some people make their worlds around what they think reality is like. They convince themselves that they had nothing to do with their worlds’ creations or continuations. Some make their worlds without knowing it. Their universes are just sesame seeds and three-day weekends and dial tones and skinned knees and physics and driftwood and emerald earrings and books dropped in bathtubs and holes in guitars and plastic and empathy and hardwood and heavy water and high black stockings and the history of the Vikings and brass and obsolescence and burnt hair and collapsed soufflés and the impossibilityo f not falling in love in an art museum with the person standing next to you looking at the same painting and all the other things that just happen and are. But you want to make for yourself a world that is deliberately and meticulously personalized. A theater for your life, if I could put it ilike that. Don’t live an accident. Don’t call a knife a knife. Live a life that has never been lived before, in which everything you experience is yours and only yours. Make accidents on purpose. Call a knife a name by which only you will recognize it. Now I’m not a very smart man, but I’m not a dumb one, either. So listen: If you can manage what I’ve told you, as `i was never able to, you will give your life meaning."
“If the Aging Magician Should Begin to Believe,” by Jonathon Safran Foer, fromA Convergence of Birds (via spallysarrow)
We spent summers barefoot
Mornings filled with Page and Plant
The sun breaking through the clouds
Like a jackhammer against cement explosions
We awoke to the smell of ripe tomatoes
Saltwater breezes drifted off the Atlantic
Seeped through thin white curtains
And aroused my senses
More beautiful than a lullaby
As the sun set
The horizon off the bay glowed a deep crimson red
Flames of tangerine tumbling and licking at its heels
Oh, those hot summer nights
Filled me with euphoria I am sure
Only ever to find
Sometime in the middle of July
When the sand is cold
And the moon is reflecting high over the oceans tide