Ata, 17. Lame by day, lamer by night.
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Every day we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why we get a heartache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty. Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. there is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there.
Henry Miller, Sexus (via notebookings) ←

thefiftyeight:

Jean-Michel Basquia and Andy Warhol - Self Portrait

sterility:

look after little bugs
2014

Who is alone now, will stay long alone,
will lie awake, read, get long letters written,
and through the streets that follow up and down
will wander restless, when the leaves are driven.
Rainer Maria Rilke, from “Autumn Day,” The Ecco Anthology of International Poetry (Ecco, 2010) ←

ssuicideblonde:

ig: jessicaxwright

thisisteariffic:

Succulent air plant wall planter
via KimFisherDesigns

fables-of-the-reconstruction:

Just when it has seemed I couldn’t bear
one more friend
waking with a tumor, one more maniac

with a perfect reason, often a sweetness
has come
and changed nothing in the world

except the way I stumbled through it,
for a while lost
in the ignorance of loving

someone or something,…