likebcool:

My Own Private Idaho

likebcool:

My Own Private Idaho

(via mikewaters)

therumpus:

For each of us, there exists a moment we will cease to exist. Some of us will have time to prepare, perhaps days or months on account of a diagnosis, perhaps seconds or even a full minute with the knowledge that the wing of this plane is on fire and it has become a bullet about to pierce the unforgiving ground.  In an instant most of us will leave behind a home, a bed made or unmade, a basket of laundry, dishes from last night or a week ago, all manner of things unfinished, dirty, in disrepair. I worry about that. Sometimes, I anxiously return to the house from my car before leaving to wash a dish or clean up a mess lest I die in traffic. Few will die leaving an immaculate home, bills taken care of for the month, clothes freshly hung in the closet, organized by season then by color. Even fewer will have a photographer come through only days after our death, photographing things exactly as we left them.

Begin Here: Post-Factum by Corrie Greathouse

(via disjunct)

euo:

“Depression is an inability to construct a future.”
Side Effects (2013) dir. Steven Soderbergh

euo:

Depression is an inability to construct a future.”

Side Effects (2013) dir. Steven Soderbergh

(via likeneelyohara)

Your soul has fallen to bits and pieces. Good. Rearrange them to suit yourself.

Hermann Hesse, Steppenwolf

(via pouvoires)

Never would’ve imagined i’d be too busy for tumblr but it’s a pretty great feeling

Never would’ve imagined i’d be too busy for tumblr but it’s a pretty great feeling

In this poem you are eating soggy cereal on your worn out couch,
not caring about the hole in the third cushion or that it smells too much like cigarette smoke and vodka.
In this poem miracles are not extinct and you are not afraid of the howling wind, or anything else for that matter.
In this poem you are not screaming.
In this poem you are not staring in your bathroom mirror, pinching at your hips and thighs -
In this poem you do not care that you haven’t showered in three days or that your hair is greasy and unkempt.
In this poem you have stopped describing yourself as monster,
as destruction, as victim.
In this poem you are laughing.
In this poem you are not alone -
In this poem I don’t leave.

Title: The Cold, The Dark & The Silence Artist: Sea Wolf 759 plays

(via littlebirdsings)

Here is the topography of false starts. Here
a whole constellation is lousy with desire.
Here what passes for love is the same
as anywhere. Here no one has said
a prayer for the stars, and here no one
comes, except to leave, except to stay
long enough to bruise.

Paul Guest, from “The Report from Home,” in The Resurrection of the Body and the Ruin of the World: Poems (New Issues Press, 2003)

(via pouvoires)

hicandhoc:

Last Letter by Hellen Jo.

(via daddyfuckedme)