so long, lonesome : archive message

"Everything you do in life will be insignificant, but it’s very important that you do it"
And I’d choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I’d find you and I’d choose you. by The Chaos of Stars (via thejumblies)

(Source: thereasonsiwakeupinthemorning, via thejumblies)

this-temporary-life:
These are the days that must happen to you. by Walt Whitman (via rainydaysandblankets)

(Source: likeafieldmouse, via kendollface)

mfjr:

by Nick Lepard
likeafieldmouse:

Leif Podhajsky - From Nowhere (2012)

likeafieldmouse:

Leif Podhajsky - From Nowhere (2012)

forelsketly:

Slow it down and you come back to bed

(Source: rhetoricals, via nakednerves)

When I was a girl, my life was music that was always getting louder.
Everything moved me. A dog following a stranger. That made me feel so much. A calendar that showed the wrong month. I could have cried over it. I did. Where the smoke from a chimney ended. How an overturned bottle rested at the edge of a table.
I spent my life learning to feel less.
Every day I felt less.
Is that growing old? Or is it something worse?
You cannot protect yourself from sadness without protecting yourself from happiness. by Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer  (via loveyourchaos)

(Source: thechocolatebrigade, via loveyourchaos)

likeafieldmouse:

Soren Dahlgaard - Dough Warrior (2008)

likeafieldmouse:

Soren Dahlgaard - Dough Warrior (2008)

arbolae:

 

Marlous van der Sloot

theonlymagicleftisart:

by Alex G. Paradise

On Tumblr.

To subscribe to The Only Magic Left is Art’s Quarterly box and receive physical media items from artists like this one, click here!

(via joydivision84)

I looked at everyone and wondered where they came from, and who they missed, and what they were sorry for. by Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close (via razorshapes)

(via mydarling)

And I am bored to death with it. Bored to death with this place, bored to death with my life, bored to death with myself. by Charles Dickens (via jaimelannister)

(Source: hellanne, via jaimelannister)

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