End of March

1. Run away to Brooklyn. Rent an apartment with a claw footed bathtub. Commute to Manhattan during the week and put in hours at a menial publishing job. Drive home to New Jersey on weekends to swim in the pool and cry to your mother. Smoke Gauloises on the fire escape. Let yellowing issues of Rolling Stone and Vogue pile into a protective fortress around your bed. Listen to Cat Power. Fall asleep mostly naked beneath the duvet watching Sportscenter and drinking earl grey. Date a Yankees fan and kiss his hands on the 4 Train into the Bronx.

2. Run away to Barcelona. Eat milk chocolate magnum bars and drink cheap champagne. Burst into charming fits of laughter whenever you get embarrassed about butchering the Catalan language. Wear denim cutoffs, Dr. Pepper chapstick, and very little else. Go dancing at 3 a.m. Whiten your teeth. Tan your shoulders. Braid feathers into your hair. Perpetually wake up with sand caught in the thin cotton sheets of your tiny bed. Listen to the Rolling Stones and kiss all the longhaired boys you can get your hands on without ever having to apologize.

3. Run away to Los Angeles. Sublet a studio in Venice three blocks from the beach. Listen to top 40 radio. Go to Chateau Marmont and charge drinks you can’t afford to a long-dormant credit card. Sleep with a television actor who lives in the valley. Sleep with a musician who lives in Bel Air. Break things off with both of them when gas prices begin to rise. Find Gilda Radner’s star on the Walk Of Fame and swallow a sob when you see the filthy cement around her name is cracked. Walk through the Venice Canals until the sun sets and you forget your own name. Call your mother crying from the parking lot of a 24-hour Ralph’s supermarket. Tell her you want to come home.

4. Run away to Paris. Gaze at the pink and pistachio glow of macarons in the window on Boulevard Saint-Germain. Listen to Joni Mitchell. Meet an Argentinean man in the Latin Quarter for drinks. Melt into his accent and kiss him goodnight, but return to your apartment alone because his face doesn’t look enough like the man’s you are trying to forget. Get lost in the Richelieu Wing of the Louvre, admiring Napoleon’s fine red damask. Walk alone along the Seine in an old dress, ten-dollar shoes, and an Hermes scarf. Fumble with the locks on the fence overlooking the river. They all have lovers’ names etched into them and the girl who left the red heart-shaped lock has the same name as you.

5. Run away to Martha’s Vineyard. Write heartbroken stories during the day in front of a large fan that blows curls of humid hair across your tired face. Take a waitress job at The Black Dog at night and try hard not to drop too many trays. Learn to ride a moped. Pretend you’re a Kennedy. Listen to Carly Simon. Eat hand-churned ice cream out of waffle cones. Visit the flying horses and consider how many girls just like you have sat on the same horse clutching for the same brass ring. Get stoned and dance barefoot down the length of the eroded Jaws beach. Date a Red Sox fan. Yell at each other during baseball games, and then kiss and make up between tangled sheets.

5 Fantasy Exit Strategies  (via beautyisanillusion)

(Source: 472239364)

1 year ago ⋅ 37,633 notes ⋅ VIA ⋅ SOURCE

David Levithan, The Realm of Possibility

(Source: aseaofquotes)

1 year ago ⋅ 11,074 notes ⋅ VIA ⋅ SOURCE

detail of Bernini’s Medusa, c. 1630.

1 year ago ⋅ 8,663 notes ⋅ VIA ⋅ SOURCE

oyessi:

African Marigold, William Morris, 1876

1 year ago ⋅ 1,216 notes ⋅ VIA ⋅ SOURCE

primordia:

soft rustling (by hweeeeeee)

1 year ago ⋅ 432 notes ⋅ VIA ⋅ SOURCE

funkystarfishy:

Masks by DASHA PLISKA

1 year ago ⋅ 15,609 notes ⋅ VIA ⋅ SOURCE

Two girls in a Dutch sanatorium have decorated their hospital room with band posters and photographs, dolls, and a James Bond game between their beds.

(Source: thegilly)

1 year ago ⋅ 4,427 notes ⋅ VIA ⋅ SOURCE

Lemony Snicket was born before you were and is likely to die before you as well. He was born in a small town where the inhabitants were suspicious and prone to riot. He grew up near the sea and currently lives beneath it. Until recently, he was living somewhere else.

(Source: thesnicketfile)

1 year ago ⋅ 14,453 notes ⋅ VIA ⋅ SOURCE

abrutalkind:

raureif by b*runnegger on Flickr.

1 year ago ⋅ 93 notes ⋅ VIA ⋅ SOURCE

vega-ofthe-lyre:

The Sciences Sing a Lullaby by Albert Goldbarth

(Source: eros-turannos)

1 year ago ⋅ 9,104 notes ⋅ VIA ⋅ SOURCE

(Source: 20-35-20)

1 year ago ⋅ 5,114 notes ⋅ VIA ⋅ SOURCE

1 year ago ⋅ 43,840 notes ⋅ VIA ⋅ SOURCE

airportlife:

Lauramae

(Source: vntp)

1 year ago ⋅ 646 notes ⋅ VIA ⋅ SOURCE

When the apocalypse comes
and all the windows are shattered
and the car tires have melted into the pavement,
once all the schools and hospitals
and skyscrapers have folded in on themselves
and the last street lamp has wilted like a starving flower,

I will still want to fuck you.

We both know I can’t handle stress well.
I’m anxious, claustrophobic, and things between us
haven’t always been easy — you nitpick, I’m stubborn,
and we have been fighting
over pointless things
like directions,
how you never take me anywhere nice anymore.
I saw the way you smiled at that poet
and her pomegranate metaphors SUCKED.

But sweetheart,
when a meteor crashes through
our kitchen ceiling, I will not panic.
When the locusts envelop the neighborhood
and our shower water thickens to blood,
I promise not to bite my nails.

I won’t even get angry when you don’t answer your phone —
even as the pavement begins to crack and spew like a rotten egg,
you will not get 47 missed calls in 4 minutes
(*even though we both know it’s possible).

When the news anchor finally tells us the truth —
that there is no hope — I won’t even thinking about
joining the angry mob outside
our burning apartment building.
Baby, no.

I will put on my least flammable negligee
and I will find you.

I will crawl to you across this curdling parking lot of a city,
lick your body new again like my tongue
is God’s hand trying to erase and recreate the earth.
For 6 days straight, we will be
what makes the sidewalk blister.

Day 1: in the beginning,
I will find you, pull you into me.

Day 2: we will make the earth
and the sky jealous.

Day 3: I want you to fuck me
bent over a crumpled taxi.

4: in the graveyard of a strip mall.

5: on the steps of the capital,
in every store, on every mattress that isn’t on fire.
This world is a melting candle
we’re only using for foreplay.

Day 6: You may think I’m in denial,
that I am avoiding the bigger issue here
but you didn’t even look at me
the last time you said I love you

and, shit, if it didn’t feel like the end of the world.

I know this can’t be healthy
(pretending everything is on fire), but baby,
we could be the most beautiful wreckage
in all this smoke.

When the apocalypse does come,
I will rebuild our city with my tongue.
I will suck this world’s ashes from your fingers.
I will refuse to let the fires of this hell
be the only thing that makes us sweat.

When the apocalypse comes,
so will we.

― “When The Apocalypse Comes,” Sierra DeMulder, The Bones Below (via anneretic)

(Source: commovente)

1 year ago ⋅ 6,737 notes ⋅ VIA ⋅ SOURCE

(Source: plagved)

1 year ago ⋅ 29,289 notes ⋅ VIA ⋅ SOURCE