Why you got your head in the clouds and talking so loud, can't you see past the stages? It's only when you finally arrive that you recognise, you've been going through changes.


dean winchester meme: 4 quotes about dean

(Source: ackermanlevi, via flyingassbuttress)

Oct 19    + 3062

wetreesinart:

J.E.H. MacDonald (1873 - 1932), The Tangled Garden, 1916, 121.4 x 152.4 cm, oil on beaverboard, National Gallery of Canada

wetreesinart:

J.E.H. MacDonald (1873 - 1932), The Tangled Garden, 1916, 121.4 x 152.4 cm, oil on beaverboard, National Gallery of Canada

(via insulinn)

Oct 19    + 465

ianisleet:

The Sound of Silence - Simon & Garfunkel

Hello darkness, my old friend
I’ve come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain still remains
Within the sound of silence

(via mockingturtles)

Oct 19    + 26902

Oct 19    + 5289

Filed as: oh my god  


The Vaccines

Oct 19    + 1292

toska [tohs-kah]

(noun) An untranslatable, Russian word – Vladimir Nabokov describes it best: “No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody or something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.”  (via elvisqueso)

(Source: wordsnquotes, via just-a-spooky-wanderer)

Oct 19    + 19118

(Source: forrestmankins, via splendid-city)

Oct 19    + 4022

untrustyou:

Michael Thomas

Oct 19    + 987

pebbleboi:

Nothing else matters, I don’t care what I miss
Company’s okay, solitude is bliss
There’s a party in my head and no one is invited

(via pebbleboi)

Oct 19    + 1777

It’s your flaws I want to taste.
Your brooked mouth.
The way you smell after being
out all day. Your knees, so eager
to bend
to whatever song is playing in
your head.
Your chest, as it rises and falls
and rises and falls
on the carpeted ground. Your
sometimes smooth chin.
Your pimpled politeness. Your
tangled hair.
Your good morning,
every morning.
I don’t want to be able to run
my fingers through you easily.
It is no fun writing about
perfections.

I want to talk about you.
Flawed. Crooked.
Endlessly
interesting.
You.

Lora Mathis, Black Coffee (via stupidscalptattoos)

(Source: larmoyante, via mockingturtles)

Oct 19    + 6583

s.t.