Xavier Dolan for Vogue Hommes 

Xavier Dolan for Vogue Hommes 

(Source: mariah-do-not-care-y)

deanisoutofpie:

M

andiamburdenedwithgloriousfeels:

thelovelymocker:

remember how this made our hearts flutter?

The things I shipped before I knew what shipping was 

(Source: bluejay--way)

awwww-cute:


My co-worker’s puppy fell asleep on her desk. Not much work got done that day

awwww-cute:

My co-worker’s puppy fell asleep on her desk. Not much work got done that day

The Grand Budapest Hotel (2014),
dir. by Wes Anderson

(Source: katnisseverdieen)

california is full of it: gold. the rush
we get from its luster. it drove men
in droves here. the burning sun
cools itself by dipping into the blue,
that’s golden, too.
the bridge i see on runs and walks.
your hair, your hair, your hair.
the wicked witch knew its power—i sleep
in the gold of california. the seeds
still stuck in my teeth. a trace
of opiates in the blood. the drive
to dover beach, beyond the exit
for the landfill, the hills beside the freeway
swayed—no—quivered spotty orange.
freckled terracettes. hiking the beach
later that day, i saw more. your face
against the green. your face against
the blue. the currency of home
in a face, yours. the transaction
of memory is an image for its forgotten
name. give me that flower on fire.
give me the word for unbearable sun.

"Poppies. Poppies.„” Robert Andrew Perez  (via commovente)

flyartproductions:

Leonidas is a black skinhead
Leonidas at Thermopylae (1814), Jacques-Louis David / Black Skinhead, Kanye West

flyartproductions:

Leonidas is a black skinhead

Leonidas at Thermopylae (1814), Jacques-Louis David / Black Skinhead, Kanye West

If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.

—Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest (via wordsnquotesjbe200)

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: “The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance.”

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don’t have her. To feel that I’ve lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn’t keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That’s all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else’s. She will be someone else’s. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

—"Saddest Poem," Pablo Neruda (via commovente)