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“I wish that photographs were physical spaces, like tunnels; that you could crawl inside them and go back.”

— Lauren Oliver, Vanishing Girls

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Tonight’s mood is going to the beach alone in the dark to sit on some rocks by the water after ingesting enough caffeine to transcend this plane of existence and have a personal conversation with Virginia Woolf

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I cannot see—but darkness, death and darkness.

John Keats, from The Complete Poems; “Hyperion: A Fragment; Book I,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

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We are all haunted houses.

H.D. from Tribute to Freud (via heteroglossia)

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So let’s annihilate everything, I say. That’s my philosophy. God denies the world, and I deny God. Long live nothing, for it’s the only thing that exists.

Albert Camus, State of Siege (via acknowledgetheabsurd)

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I used to think when I died — I could see you — so I died as fast as I could.

Emily Dickinson, from a letter to an unknown recipient featured in The Letters of Emily Dickinson (via violentwavesofemotion)

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Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal

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By a route obscure and lonely,     Haunted by ill angels only,     Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,     On a black throne reigns upright,     I have reached these lands but newly     From an ultimate dim Thule –     From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,           Out of SPACE – out of TIME.     Bottomless vales and boundless floods,     And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,     With forms that no man can discover     For the dews that drip all over;     Mountains toppling evermore     Into seas without a shore;     Seas that restlessly aspire,     Surging, unto skies of fire;     Lakes that endlessly outspread     Their lone waters – lone and dead, –     Their still waters – still and chilly     With the snows of the lolling lily.     By the lakes that thus outspread     Their lone waters, lone and dead, –     Their sad waters, sad and chilly     With the snows of the lolling lily, –     By the mountains – near the river     Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever, –     By the grey woods, – by the swamp     Where the toad and the newt encamp, –     By the dismal tarns and pools             Where dwell the Ghouls, –     By each spot the most unholy –     In each nook most melancholy, –     There the traveller meets aghast     Sheeted Memories of the Past –     Shrouded forms that start and sigh     As they pass the wanderer by –     White-robed forms of friends long given,     In agony, to the Earth – and Heaven.     For the heart whose woes are legion     ‘Tis a peaceful, soothing region –     For the spirit that walks in shadow     'Tis – oh 'tis an Eldorado!     But the traveller, travelling through it,     May not – dare not openly view it;     Never its mysteries are exposed     To the weak human eye unclosed;     So wills its King, who hath forbid     The uplifting of the fringed lid;     And thus the sad Soul that here passes     Beholds it but through darkened glasses.     By a route obscure and lonely,     Haunted by ill angels only,     Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,     On a black throne reigns upright,     I have wandered home but newly     From this ultimate dim Thule.

Dreamland, The Complete Poems and Stories of Edgar Allan Poe (1946)

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And she finds it difficult to believe — that a person would love her even when she isn’t trying. Trying to figure out what other people need, trying to be worthy.

Margaret Atwood (via quotemadness)

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She did not want to move or to speak. She wanted to rest, to lean, to dream. She felt very tired.

Virginia Woolf, The Years

(de la connerie humaine - en français dans le texte)

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People or stars Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.

Sylvia Plath, Ariel (via suzannealaywan)

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So last night at work was pretty rad #kerryking #slayer #duffsbrooklyn 🤘

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My Dy-dee doll died twice. Once when I snapped her head off and let if float in the toilet and once under the sun lamp trying to get warm she melted. She was a gloom, her face embracing her little bent arms. She died in all her rubber wisdom.

the dy-dee doll by anne sexton (via feral-virago)

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Under my bowels, yellow with smoke,  it waits.  Under my eyes, those milk bunnies,  it waits.  It is waiting.  It is waiting.  Mr. Doppelganger. My brother. My spouse.  Mr. Doppelganger. My enemy. My lover.  When truth comes spilling out like peas  it hangs up the phone.  When the child is soothed and resting on the breast  it is my other who swallows Lysol.  When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet  it is my other who sits in a ball and cries.  My other beats a tin drum in my heart.  My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep.  My other cries and cries and cries  when I put on a cocktail dress.  It cries when I prick a potato.  It cries when I kiss someone hello.  It cries and cries and cries  until I put on a painted mask  and leer at Jesus in His passion.  Then it giggles.  It is a thumbscrew.  Its hatred makes it clairvoyant.  I can only sign over everything,  the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels,  the soul, the family tree, the mailbox.  Then I can sleep.  Maybe.

The Other by Anne Sexton (via hazyasaugust)

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〰robert frost〰

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You think I’m exaggerating? No. Upon my soul, no. Upon my soul which belongs to you, no.

Franz Kafka, from The Complete Stories (via violentwavesofemotion)

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By the dismal tarns and pools Where dwell the Ghouls,— By each spot the most unholy— In each nook most melancholy,— There the traveller meets aghast Sheeted Memories of the Past— Shrouded forms that start and sigh As they pass the wanderer by— White-robed forms of friends long given, In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.

Edgar Allan Poe - from (Dream-Land)