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Any of you former/current Catholics ever watch porn so fucked up that you have the urge to say the Nicene Creed after you cum?

Yeah. Me neither.

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how the neighbor houses meet

1st and 2nd: your outfit, your signature scent, what you pick off the menu

2nd and 3rd: sharing toys with your siblings, a book collection

3rd and 4th: the kids table at a holiday dinner, reading the newspaper at the breakfast table

4th and 5th: family game night, toddlers

5th and 6th: beautiful detail in gifts for a loved one, making your child’s lunch lovingly every school day

6th and 7th: calligraphy in a love letter, lipstick marks on the seal of the envelope

7th and 8th: intimacy, discovering yourself through another

8th and 9th: realizations about human nature, spiritual truth through the occult, mind blowing sex

9th and 10th: a bright eyed and bushy tailed intern, success

10th and 11th: an office party, invention through necessity

11th and 12th: video games, organized religion, digital art

12th and 1st: perception altering drugs, death to birth

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First in a new sigil series I’m working on 😊

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It’s hard to believe that places like this exist ~

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What does your quarantine sanctuary look like? Self care is too important during these times! Stay safe and cozy everyone. 🌙🐱💕

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instagram | tamsynmorgans

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sunny days 

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These vibes are goals!! 💗🌿😍

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“After all, the years from twenty to thirty are years (let me refer to your letter) of emotional excitement. The rain dripping, a wing flashing, someone passing — the commonest sounds and sights have power to fling one, as I seem to remember, from the heights of rapture to the depths of despair. And if the actual life is thus extreme, the visionary life should be free to follow. Write then, now that you are young, nonsense by the ream. Be silly, be sentimental, imitate Shelley, imitate Samuel Smiles; give the rein to every impulse; commit every fault of style, grammar, taste, and syntax; pour out; tumble over; loose anger, love, satire, in whatever words you can catch, coerce or create, in whatever metre, prose, poetry, or gibberish that comes to hand. Thus you will learn to write. But if you publish, your freedom will be checked; you will be thinking what people will will say; you will write for others when you ought only to be writing for yourself. And what point can there be in curbing the wild torrent of spontaneous nonsense which is now, for a few years only, your divine gift in order to publish prim little books of experimental verses? To make money? That, we both know, is out of the question. To get criticism? But your friends will pepper your manuscripts with far more serious and searching criticism than any you will get from the reviewers. As for fame, look I implore you at famous people; see how the waters of dullness spread around them as they enter; observe their pomposity, their prophetic airs; reflect that the greatest poets were anonymous; think how Shakespeare cared nothing for fame; how Donne tossed his poems into the waste-paper basket; write an essay giving a single instance of any modern English writer who has survived the disciples and the admirers, the autograph hunters and the interviewers, the dinners and the luncheons, the celebrations and the commemorations with which English society so effectively stops the mouths of its singers and silences their songs.”

— Virginia Woolf, A Letter to a Young Poet.

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“After all, the years from twenty to thirty are years (let me refer to your letter) of emotional excitement. The rain dripping, a wing flashing, someone passing — the commonest sounds and sights have power to fling one, as I seem to remember, from the heights of rapture to the depths of despair. And if the actual life is thus extreme, the visionary life should be free to follow. Write then, now that you are young, nonsense by the ream. Be silly, be sentimental, imitate Shelley, imitate Samuel Smiles; give the rein to every impulse; commit every fault of style, grammar, taste, and syntax; pour out; tumble over; loose anger, love, satire, in whatever words you can catch, coerce or create, in whatever metre, prose, poetry, or gibberish that comes to hand. Thus you will learn to write. But if you publish, your freedom will be checked; you will be thinking what people will will say; you will write for others when you ought only to be writing for yourself. And what point can there be in curbing the wild torrent of spontaneous nonsense which is now, for a few years only, your divine gift in order to publish prim little books of experimental verses? To make money? That, we both know, is out of the question. To get criticism? But your friends will pepper your manuscripts with far more serious and searching criticism than any you will get from the reviewers. As for fame, look I implore you at famous people; see how the waters of dullness spread around them as they enter; observe their pomposity, their prophetic airs; reflect that the greatest poets were anonymous; think how Shakespeare cared nothing for fame; how Donne tossed his poems into the waste-paper basket; write an essay giving a single instance of any modern English writer who has survived the disciples and the admirers, the autograph hunters and the interviewers, the dinners and the luncheons, the celebrations and the commemorations with which English society so effectively stops the mouths of its singers and silences their songs.”

— Virginia Woolf, A Letter to a Young Poet.

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If we wait until we’re ready, we’ll be waiting for the rest of our lives.

Lemony Snicket (via bnmxfld)

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girlandtheword

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cfunk44

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