homvlily

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oooohhhh ok. the more you deny yourself the more you lose yourself

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you can't predict the thematic twists and turns of my blog

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FKA Twigs

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love is the gunpowder in my blood

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𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐲

[homvlily]

"dead doesn't mean absent...", tathev simonyan

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~ Popular Amusements, by Rev. J. T. Crane, 1869

Rev. Crane goes on to tell us how novel reading leads to day-dreaming, "excitement of the passions" and leaves a person "unfit for real life". At one point he even compares it to an opium addiction.

Unfortunately for the Rev. Jonathan Townley Crane, professional disapprover of fiction, his son Stephen Crane grew up to write "The Red Badge of Courage" which is now considered one of the great American novels. Life can be ironic that way.

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from hashimalidesignstudios

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guys… i think my body did keep the score fuck

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Maria Denise Dessimoz, The Inevitable Anguish of Desire

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Lilac breasted roller, a bit disheveled before morning coffee.

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first mammoth to get hit with a spear mustve been like actually fuck you for real

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does anyone know how to get over it?

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Would be the Helen to your war, Set the sea and sky ablaze. Let a thousand die before You ever learned to say my name. Would be the Iphigenia to your winds, Blade against my throat for fate. If the gods would grant you favor, I would bleed and call it grace. Tell me, tell me, would it matter? If I shattered, if I sang, if I swayed? If I laid myself upon the altar, Would you turn, would you stay? Would be the Patroclus you mourned, Gold and grief upon your tongue. If you’d rage against the storm, I would die while I was young.

Would be the Orpheus who fell, For one more glimpse, one last embrace. Drag me screaming into hell, I would follow all the same.

Tell me, tell me, would it move you? If I broke, if I burned, if I bowed? If I laid myself upon the altar, Would you turn back and stay? Let the gods decide what’s owed— Let the stars write what they must. Now I would walk into the cold, If it meant you'd turn to dust. Would be the Helen to your war, Would be the blood beneath your throne… Let the echoes know I loved you, Even when they carve my stone.

_ Y. Cavallaro, "The Altar"