by A. William Frederick

    8:39 pm     340 notes

April is the cruelest month, breeding
lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
memory and desire, stirring
dull roots with spring rain.

— T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land

8:38 pm     4,350 notes

by Ümit Bulut

    8:36 pm     819 notes

by Marcel Castenmiller

    8:36 pm     291 notes

by Sophie Van der Perre

    7:32 pm     411 notes

I’m afraid we’ll always be
a book with the end pages ripped out.

— Madisen Kuhn, Does Time Truly Heal All Wounds?

7:15 pm     1,887 notes

by Märt V

    7:15 pm     360 notes

Vampire Weekend - Ya Hey

12:46 am     342 notes

by Jimmy Walker

    11:04 pm     970 notes

by Kayla Varley

    11:04 pm     241 notes

We find out the heart only by dismantling what
the heart knows. By redefining the morning,
we find a morning that comes just after darkness.
We can break through marriage into marriage.
By insisting on love we spoil it, get beyond
affection and wade mouth-deep into love.
We must unlearn the constellations to see the stars.

— Jack Gilbert, from “Tear It Down

11:01 pm     317 notes

by Soria

    10:31 pm     456 notes

by Katherine Squier

    10:31 pm     275 notes

To be an artist, you have to nurture the things that most people discard.

— Richard Avedon, Darkness and Light

10:29 pm     1,005 notes

by Lukasz Wierzbowski

    9:59 pm     495 notes