i saw you in my dreams
It just feels right.

It just feels right.


Birds Of A Feather | by Claire Rosen.

A brilliant live portrait series by Claire Rosen featuring vintage wallpaper backdrops to accentuate and highlight the colors of each bird, which range from the common Parakeet to the exotic Hyacinth Macaw.

As seen on: Honestly WTF.


My kind of Barbie.


My kind of Barbie.


so flawless

thank you so much for posting this! xoxo <3

At 19, I read a sentence that re-terraformed my head: “The level of matter in the universe has been constant since the Big Bang.”
In all the aeons we have lost nothing, we have gained nothing - not a speck, not a grain, not a breath. The universe is simply a sealed, twisting kaleidoscope that has reordered itself a trillion trillion trillion times over.
Each baby, then, is a unique collision - a cocktail, a remix - of all that has come before: made from molecules of Napoleon and stardust and comets and whale tooth; colloidal mercury and Cleopatra’s breath: and with the same darkness that is between the stars between, and inside, our own atoms.
When you know this, you suddenly see the crowded top deck of the bus, in the rain, as a miracle: this collection of people is by way of a starburst constellation. Families are bright, irregular-shaped nebulae. Finding a person you love is like galaxies colliding. We are all peculiar, unrepeatable, perambulating micro-universes - we have never been before and we will never be again. Oh God, the sheer exuberant, unlikely face of our existences. The honour of being alive. They will never be able to make you again. Don’t you dare waste a second of it thinking something better will happen when it ends. Don’t you dare.
Caitlin Moran (via scatteredandshining)


I am immovable.
I am immortal.
I am elevated by love
and destroyed by silence.
I am focused.
I am in flight
but I am sorrowed by the sight
of our hearts crumbling.
I question everything
but I am certain of my purpose.
We breathe for a reason and I will not
accept that my breathing is…

Reblogging myself so I can remember.

Learn to let go.

Learn to let go.

Learn to let go.

Learn to let go.

Learn to let go.

Learn to let go.

Learn that letting go is not giving up. 

You never forget what they write about you.

"Hey, let’s go."
She made it sound so easy,
so effortless,
and then dropped out of the sky, nameless.

Who knows what became of her.

The way she painted it out,
she could be just about anywhere -
maybe even everywhere.

"I’m so fucking bored."
It made her sick to just sit around all day,
watching the weather change,
staring into the endless sky above.
She loved the wind, its unpredictability,
letting it be her guide.
She never needed a map,
never even cared to feel her feet on the ground.

What she loved best was meeting new faces.

In another life, she would become a beautiful girl,
almost twenty-one years old.
She would get her second tattoo in late October,
six leaves etched on either side of her rib cage -
the winds of change,
which had previously been so literal for her,
were now simply an image, a notion,
in whose hands she placed her life.
And the wind would take her again.

I could never take her as the wind did,
but she once gave herself to me;
our blue eyes turned shapeless and colorless in the darkness of my room,
but our passion evoked some kind of synaesthesia;
each push sparked another color in my body,
each breath cooled the spark and smoothed into another color.
Not in front, behind, or anywhere near my eyes,
but somewhere deeper inside,
somewhere more expansive,
yet at the same time more easily located,
like a single nerve twitching,
comfortably, violently, all ecstatic.

Later she would say:
“My fire heated as his hands touched me” and:
“In the heat of the moment, I make decisions even quicker.”
I find her allusions to heat and fire funny, knowing what she once was,
knowing she might never have known
the feeling of skin against skin,
nerves endings against nerve endings,
the human conditions of passion and pleasure.

I am thankful
to wake up before her,
to see her face one more time
before the wind might take her again.”

This is personal.

This is personal.

Ludovic Florent's series “Poussières d’étoiles” (Stardust). 

Had an incredible weekend in Chicago to see my sister.

Pro tip: wear all black so when spilling coffee, red wine or blood of thine enemy, you won’t have to worry about staining.


People who notice everything but remain silent are to be feared.