Sin verguenza

Hay un mundo más allá

(Source: c-a-n-a-r-i-o)

I’m still learning to love the parts of me that no one claps for.

Rudy Francisco (via fuckyeahrudyfrancisco)


Schiaparelli compact case.


Schiaparelli compact case.

(Source: modelsandstuff)

All through autumn we hear a double voice: one says everything is ripe; the other says everything is dying. The paradox is exquisite. We feel what the Japanese call “aware” — an almost untranslatable word meaning something like “beauty tinged with sadness.”

Gretel Ehrlich, The Solace of Open Spaces (via wrists)

(Source: litverve)


Not every sky is
reflected in the puddle. Not every love wanders in to stay.
Are you talking to yourself? Yes, I’m talking to my selves.
Sometimes we’re just an echo of what we meant to say.

—Richard Jackson, from “Is This the Person to Whom I am Speaking,” in Out of Place (Ashland Poetry Press, 2014)

(Source: memoryslandscape)

A woman sitting by herself is not waiting for you.

Caitlin Stasey (via oust)

(Source: mysharona1987)

I was at the bottom of the sea, the pressure dense, crushing, inexorable. Dead silence strained against my eardrums. The darkness was without reprieve. No mental adjustment could make it less absolute. It was impenetrable — black painted over black painted over black.

 Haruki Murakami, Dance, Dance, Dance (via youngfolksociety)


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Voxtrot, “The Start of Something”

(Source: melodyhansen)

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