We’re a strange pair, aren’t we?

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3 hours ago 8,179 notes


Matvey Lykov | ph. Fanny Latour-Lambert | L’Officiel Hommes Netherlands FW’12

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5 hours ago 1,782 notes


im sorry i like shipping eve and the devil bc there’s the devil being all serious and gloomy and Standing In Opposition To All Of God’s Works and Bringing About The Downfall Of Man and here’s this sweet girl who doesn’t wear as many clothes as she should who keeps texting him all the time saying hey goober :) :) and call me :) and u got a cute butt :) and i cut u out some coupons!!!!!! :D :D :D

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5 hours ago 53 notes

On Being Human


Angelic minds, they say, by simple intelligence
Behold the Forms of nature. They discern
Unerringly the Archtypes, all the verities
Which mortals lack or indirectly learn.
Transparent in primordial truth, unvarying,
Pure Earthness and right Stonehood from their clear,
High eminence are seen; unveiled, the seminal
Huge Principles appear.

The Tree-ness of the tree they know-the meaning of
Arboreal life, how from earth’s salty lap
The solar beam uplifts it; all the holiness
Enacted by leaves’ fall and rising sap;

But never an angel knows the knife-edged severance
Of sun from shadow where the trees begin,
The blessed cool at every pore caressing us
-An angel has no skin.

They see the Form of Air; but mortals breathing it
Drink the whole summer down into the breast.
The lavish pinks, the field new-mown, the ravishing
Sea-smells, the wood-fire smoke that whispers Rest.
The tremor on the rippled pool of memory
That from each smell in widening circles goes,
The pleasure and the pang —can angels measure it?
An angel has no nose.

The nourishing of life, and how it flourishes
On death, and why, they utterly know; but not
The hill-born, earthy spring, the dark cold bilberries.
The ripe peach from the southern wall still hot
Full-bellied tankards foamy-topped, the delicate
Half-lyric lamb, a new loaf’s billowy curves,
Nor porridge, nor the tingling taste of oranges.
—An angel has no nerves.

Far richer they! I know the senses’ witchery
Guards us like air, from heavens too big to see;
Imminent death to man that barb’d sublimity
And dazzling edge of beauty unsheathed would be.
Yet here, within this tiny, charmed interior,
This parlour of the brain, their Maker shares
With living men some secrets in a privacy
Forever ours, not theirs.

C. S. Lewis

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5 days ago 127 notes

"Sometimes we saw shadows of gods in the trees; silenced, we went on."

- Galway Kinnel, “Turkeys”  

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5 days ago 673 notes

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5 days ago 3,636 notes


Caitlin R. Kiernan | The Drowning Girl: A Memoir

5 days ago 9 notes


Dishonored: Corvo and Emily - by Julia Vasileva

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1 week ago 2,164 notes

Ice washed onto the black sand beach of lake Jökulsárlón, Iceland.

Photo credit:

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1 week ago 14,334 notes



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1 week ago 1,979 notes

"Neither animals of different species, nor men of different cultures, nor any individual, animal or human, inhabits the same world as another, however close and similar these living individuals may be (humans or animals), and the difference from one world to the other will remain forever uncrossable, the community of the world being always constructed, simulated by a group of stabilizing positings [dispositifs], more or less stable, therefore also never natural, language in the broad sense, codes of traces being destined, with all the living, to construct a unity of the world always deconstructible and nowhere and never given in nature. Between my world, (the “my world”; what I call “my world,” and there is no other for me, every other world making up part of it), between my world and every other world, there is initially the space and the time of an infinite difference, of an interruption incommensurable with all the attempts at passage, of bridge, of isthmus, of communication, of translation, of trope, and of transfer which the desire for a world and the sickness of the world [mal du monde], the being in sickness of the world [l’être en mal de monde] will attempt to pose, to impose, to propose, to stabilize. There is no world, there are only islands. That is one of the thousand directions toward which I would interpret the last line of a short and great poem by Celan: Die Welt ist fort, ich muss dich tragen, [The world is gone, I have to carry you] poem of mourning or of birth."

- Jacques Derrida, “La Bête et le souverain” 

1 week ago 77 notes

"Since a three-dimensional object casts a two-dimensional shadow, we should be able to imagine the unknown four-dimensional object whose shadow we are."

- Marcel Duchamp 

1 week ago 4,491 notes


abandoned chemistry lab | Berlin, Germany

photography by Martino Zegwaard

1 week ago 353 notes


Melissa’s back healed.

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1 week ago 3,133 notes


Doomed City, Discovery, and Promised Land by Andrey Vozny

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1 week ago 214 notes