— Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love (via observando)
6:11 am 12,286 notes
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— Charlotte Eriksson, Empty Roads & Broken Bottles; in search for The Great Perhaps (via larmoyante)
11:13 am 4,033 notes
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My notebook has remained blank for months
thanks to the light you shower
around me. I have no use
for my pen, which lies
languorously without grief.
Nothing is better than to live
a storyless life that needs
no writing for meaning—
when I am gone, let others say
they lost a happy man,
though no one can tell how happy I was.
— Ha Jin, “Missed Time,” Poetry (July 2000). (via literarymiscellany)
9:01 am 3,367 notes
9:00 am 1,906 notes
— Susane Colasanti, When It Happens (via larmoyante)
8:57 am 8,420 notes
8:57 am 4,573 notes
— Frida Kahlo, from The Diary Of Frida Kahlo: An Intimate Self-Portrait (via violentwavesofemotion)
8:57 am 3,521 notes
8:53 am 1,357 notes
Summer for prose and lemons, for nakedness and languor,
for the eternal idleness of the imagined return,
for rare flutes and bare feet, and the August bedroom
of tangled sheets and the Sunday salt, ah violin!
When I press summer dusks together, it is
a month of street accordions and sprinklers
laying the dust, small shadows running from me.
It is music opening and closing, Italia mia, on Bleecker,
ciao, Antonio, and the water-cries of children
tearing the rose-coloured sky in streams of paper;
it is dusk in the nostrils and the smell of water
down littered streets that lead you to no water,
and gathering islands and lemons in the mind.
There is the Hudson, like the sea aflame.
I would undress you in the summer heat,
and laugh and dry your damp flesh if you came.
— "Bleecker Street, Summer," Derek Walcott (via commovente)
8:50 am 496 notes
3:48 pm 1,375 notes
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— Scott Woods (X)
6:28 am 105,696 notes