1. (Source: beouija)

     

  2. There’s too much wreckage. 

    Someone I loved once said to me. It was the last time he and I spoke. 

    I’m getting pretty tired of this / you.

    Someone I tried to love once sent this to me as a text. It was our last interaction.

    — 

    There was good. There were hours of laughter. We had the best goddamn cherry pie and pulled it out of the oven while the theme from Twin Peaks played on loop. We drank too much and smoked weed and danced. 

    There was truth. There was the fact that I didn’t love him. It was easier for me to let him believe what he wanted. For weeks we entwined and intertwined. 

    There’s a point when dancing to Édith Piaf in the afternoon sunlight spins worlds far and beyond simple steps and twirls.

    There’s a point when the games are no longer fun. There’s a point when the tapestry unravels. There’s a point when It is useless to try to catch the threads.

    The good doesn’t change. It just will never look the same. 

    So we say good bye. So we cut and go and read the final words as we will.

    The head-on collision of warped realities dissolve into separateness. We walk away from the smolder and smoke trying not to look back. 

    We take the shades of memories and construct meaning that is useful to us alone. They become the shadows of our new lessons. It becomes what we are meant to take with us from the wreckage.

     

     
  3. (Source: favstar.fm, via silkyblackgold)

     

  4.  image

     Last night I bought Chris McDaniel a shot of Espolón.  

     
  5. <3

    (Source: jacquesdemys, via silkyblackgold)

     
  6.  
  7. wnycradiolab:

    More from Flowers of the Sky—depictions of comets, meteors, meteorites and shooting stars at the Public Domain Review.

     

  8. "

    Clear night, thumb-top of a moon, a back-lit sky.
    Moon-fingers lay down their same routine
    On the side deck and the threshold, the white keys and the black keys.
    Bird hush and bird song. A cassia flower falls.

    I want to be bruised by God.
    I want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out.
    I want to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed.
    I want to be entered and picked clean.

    And the wind says “What?” to me.
    And the castor beans, with their little earrings of death, say “What?” to me.
    And the stars start out on their cold slide through the dark.
    And the gears notch and the engines wheel.

    "
    — Charles Wright
     
  9. France near Onlay, Nièvre: 

    We hiked up a hill and around a dirt path corner, a field bloomed in yellow. 

     
  10. For the last week I’ve had no idea what day it is. To be honest, I still don’t. Not without looking. 

    Today I am in Montreuil, just East of Paris. 

    For the last three hours I have been silent. No words at all. Just the wind in the grape vines above the window and the soft whirring white noise of the city. 

    The city calls to me. Somewhere above the leaves and lives. It is there and I am here. 

    Here is a fading brown couch across from a piano. A huge window, open to my left, lets in sun and sound. Outside, bobbling in wind, are grapes. They are reddening beneath their roof of leaves. Here I have tea.  There is whispering green grass. There are these damn impossible grapes. 

    There’s that city somewhere near. There’s always a city somewhere near. 

     

  11. The Road Not Taken

    The first week of my freshman year of high school our first english assignment was to memorize this poem. Mrs. Bathke, our teacher, would have us each stand and recite it for everyone at the start of class.

    She told us, that it would be a funny thing, that years from now we would be sitting somewhere and know every word to The Road Not Taken.

    We probably did something teen-age like rolling our eyes or scoffing while returning to writing a note to pass.

    Fifteen years later I still can recite this poem on command.

    Thank you, Mrs. Bathke.

     

  12. "

    Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
    And sorry I could not travel both
    And be one traveler, long I stood
    And looked down one as far as I could
    To where it bent in the undergrowth;

    Then took the other, as just as fair,
    And having perhaps the better claim
    Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
    Though as for that the passing there
    Had worn them really about the same,

    And both that morning equally lay
    In leaves no step had trodden black.
    Oh, I kept the first for another day!
    Yet knowing how way leads on to way
    I doubted if I should ever come back.

    I shall be telling this with a sigh
    Somewhere ages and ages hence:
    Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
    I took the one less traveled by,
    And that has made all the difference.

    "
    — Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken (via whyallcaps)

    (via whyallcaps)

     

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  14. "You realize yourself when you start reflecting—because I don’t live in the past, although your past is so much a part of what you are—that you can’t ignore it." 

    - Lauren Bacall 

     
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