1. 4 days ago  /  71 notes  /  Source: superpretty

  2. Living
    in and out of the past,
    inexplicably
    so many things have died
    in me.

    In and out like a tide,
    each tear
    holds a tiny hologram.
    Even this early
    I am full of years.

    Here are the little gravestones
    where memory
    stands in the wild grass,
    watching the future
    arrive in a line of big black cars.

    All days
    lost days, in and out of themselves
    between dreaming
    and dreaming again and half-
    remembering.

    Carol Ann Duffy, All Days Lost Days,” from New Selected Poems 1984-2004 (Picador 2004)

    (via apoetreflects)

    5 days ago  /  461 notes  /  Source: violentwavesofemotion

  3. alternativealley:

    Nothing It Can // Helios

    5 days ago  /  47 notes  /  Source: alternativealley

  4. brutalgeneration:

(by karina y)

    brutalgeneration:

    (by karina y)

    (via oh-bird)

    5 days ago  /  716 notes  /  Source: Flickr / karinayeznaian

  5. A human being has so many skins inside, covering the depths of the heart. We know so many things, but we don’t know ourselves! Why, thirty or forty skins or hides, as thick and hard as an ox’s or bear’s, cover the soul. Go into your own ground and learn to know yourself there.
    – Eckhart 

    6 days ago  /  2 notes

  6. bebopdiscjoc:

    Wick Wack - Mellow Soul Fruit

    6 days ago  /  8 notes  /  Source: bebopdiscjoc

  7. (via improper-bohemian)

    6 days ago  /  584 notes  /  Source: ledomsh

  8. 1 week ago  /  4,775 notes  /  Source: northfalls

  9. Stumbleine “Dusk / Dawn” 2013 - Ocean Panorama

    1 week ago  /  4 notes

  10. superpretty:

bjorn, ph harris

    superpretty:

    bjorn, ph harris

    1 week ago  /  52 notes  /  Source: superpretty

  11. apoetreflects:

    There is a song the body sings to itself
         about time’s arrow, that has pierced
    Its sentimental shining heart: about the eternal
         flow of fire over the medulla oblongata,
    And the oceanic backwash of lymph
         in the cells’ interstices. Call that song an angel.
    Call it space. The body sings, and does not know
         or care about the corrosive dark matter
    Sealed in burial urns. The body sings, and when it stops
          for breath, nothing sings back its harmony.

    T. R. Hummer, "Maria Ranier Rilke, 1875-1926," from Urn: Poems (Diode Editions, 2014)

    1 week ago  /  141 notes  /  Source: apoetreflects

  12. Cinematography, direction, and editing by Colin Rich. 

    Facebook: facebook.com/colinrich1

    1 week ago  /  0 notes