cela ne vaut pas la peine

→ September 17,2014|11:45pm "It’s too easy, you see, to get trapped in the past. The past is very seductive. People always talk about the mists of time, you know, but really it’s the present that’s in a mist, uncertain. The past is quite clear, and warm, and comforting. That’s why people often get stuck there."

Susanna Kearsley, Mariana (via larmoyante)

(via misfortunates)

→ September 17,2014|11:41pm 
yasutomo ebisu

yasutomo ebisu

(Source: latterlig, via yoru-e)

→ September 17,2014|11:39pm "I have noticed even people who claim everything is predestined, and that we can do nothing to change it, look before they cross the road."

Stephen Hawking (via likeafieldmouse)

(via bronsuen)

→ September 17,2014|11:38pm

(Source: , via feelfearless)

→ September 16,2014|12:26am

"There is an old poem by Neruda that I’ve always been captivated by, and one of the first lines in it has stuck with me ever since the first time i read it. It says "love is so short, forgetting is so long". It’s a line I’ve related to in my saddest moments, when i needed to know someone else had felt the exact same way.” (RED prologue)

(Source: swifth, via cursive-lines)

→ September 16,2014|12:25am

(Source: geoffmcfetridge, via youbroketheinternet)

→ September 15,2014|5:44am 


(Source: bouettte, via oucu)

→ September 15,2014|5:40am ireadintothings:

by gloryszabo


by gloryszabo

→ September 15,2014|5:33am

sometimes i walk on a certain path,
or the sky turns a certain colour,
or the trees shake a certain way, i’ve never been the type to notice them - they’re only fucking trees - but they move a certain way, right? and that’s enough to get me started:
is it called melancholy? 

sometimes i say something or hear something or think something i swear has been said before - by you?
i’m not mistaken, i’m sure, a reminder that we’re carved from the same stone - you and i - minutia i used to smile for, christ i still smile, as strange as it is now;
is it really so different at all?

→ September 11,2014|12:25am Charles Bukowski, War All the Time

Charles Bukowski, War All the Time

(Source: aseaofquotes, via danipilo)

→ September 11,2014|12:12am

Photographs of blood and milk by

Frederic Fontenoy

(Source: mexicanist, via pearlyteeth)

→ September 11,2014|12:08am "

It’s always like this.
I catch their scent and
old feelings come around.

still, we know one another,
or should.

All I want is to take my quilts,
spread them beside the porch rail,

and deep in the night,
at ease together,
speak of longing, of love.


Xue Tao, excerpt from Peonies (transl. by Jeanne Larsen)

(Source: pleasebebrave, via cursive-lines)

→ September 10,2014|11:55pm sickpage:

PeteTaipei Night, 2012


Taipei Night, 2012

→ September 10,2014|11:54pm ulita580:

特技は部屋の片付け by ちろる on pixiv


特技は部屋の片付け by ちろる on pixiv

(via kid-speaks)

→ September 10,2014|11:35pm "

In every bar there’s someone sitting alone and absolutely absorbed

by whatever he’s seeing in the glass in front of him,

a glass that looks ordinary, with something clear or dark

inside it, something partially drunk but never completely gone.

Everything’s there: all the plans that came to nothing,

the stupid love affairs, and the terrifying ones, the ones where

            actual happiness

opened like a hole beneath his feet and he fell in, then lay helpless

while the dirt rained down a little at a time to bury him.

And his friends are there, cracking open six-packs, raising the


the click of their meeting like the sound of a pool cue

nicking a ball, the wrong ball, that now edges, black and shining,

toward the waiting pocket. But it stops short, and at the bar the

            lone drinker

signals for another. Now the relatives are floating up

with their failures, with cancer, with plateloads of guilt

and a little laughter, too, and even beauty—some afternoon from


a lake, a ball game, a book of stories, a few flurries of snow

that thicken and gradually cover the earth until the whole

world’s gone white and quiet, until there’s hardly a world

at all, no traffic, no money or butchery or sex,

just a blessed peace that seems final but isn’t. And finally

the glass that contains and spills this stuff continually

while the drinker hunches before it, while the bartender gathers

up empties, gives back the drinker’s own face. Who knows what it

            looks like;

who cares whether or not it was young once, or ever lovely,

who gives a shit about some drunk rising to stagger toward

the bathroom, some man or woman or even lost

angel who recklessly threw it all over—heaven, the ether,

the celestial works—and said, Fuck it, I want to be human?

Who believes in angels, anyway? Who has time for anything

but their own pleasures and sorrows, for the few good people

they’ve managed to gather around them against the uncertainty,

against afternoons of sitting alone in some bar

with a name like the Embers or the Ninth Inning or the Wishing


Forget that loser. Just tell me who’s buying, who’s paying;

Christ but I’m thirsty, and I want to tell you something,

come close I want to whisper it, to pour

the words burning into you, the same words for each one of you,

listen, it’s simple, I’m saying it now, while I’m still sober,

while I’m not about to weep bitterly into my own glass,

while you’re still here—don’t go yet, stay, stay,

give me your shoulder to lean against, steady me, don’t let me


I’m so in love with you I can’t stand up.


Kim Addonizio, “Glass”