unconsummated
Description
Nicole. Baby baby you was just sweet 16.I bought a ticket to the capital of the moon and found white cheese and too many open pores, but I had to leave, I just had to leave. I lived on indigestible rocks and unheard songs for a long time, until I could go back to blue and green and brown, the spectrum unlimited.
NCIS/Tiva blog: totallyunrealistic.tumblr.com
Links
"Anything that gets your blood racing is probably worth doing."
Hunter S. Thompson (via ciao-sole)
(via seafoamchild)
"This is a valley of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of gray cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-gray men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight."
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (via tinycitiesmadeofcats)
"I would rather die of passion than of boredom."
"Language and, presumably, literature are more ancient and inevitable, more durable than any form of social organization. The revulsion, irony, or indifference often expressed by literature toward the state is essentially the reaction of the permanent—better yet, the infinite—against the temporary, against the finite."
Joseph Brodsky (via awritersruminations)
"I am more sensitive than other people. Things that other people would not notice awaken a distinct echo in me, and in such moments of lucidity, when I look at myself, I see that I am alone, all alone, all alone."
Henri Barbusse, Hell (translated by Edward J. O’Brien)
"I wonder how many people I’ve looked at all my life and never seen."
"He sighed profoundly, and flung himself - there was a passion in his movements which deserves the word - on the earth at the foot of the oak tree. He loved, beneath all this summer transiency, to feel the earth’s spine beneath him; for such he took the hard root of the oak tree to be; or, for image followed image, it was the back of a great horse that he was riding; or the deck of a tumbling ship - it was anything indeed, so long as it was hard, for he felt the need of something which he could attach his floating heart to; the heart that tugged at his side; the heart that seemed filled with spiced and amorous gales every evening about this time when he walked out. To the oak tree he tied it and as he lay there, gradually the flutter in and about him stilled itself; the little leaves hung, the deer stopped; the pale summer clouds stayed; his limbs grew heavy on the ground; and he lay so still that by degrees the deer stopped nearer and the rooks wheeled round him and the swallows dipped and circled and the dragonflies shot past, as if all the fertility and amorous activity of a summer’s evening were woven web-like about his body."
Virginia Woolf, Orlando (via cartographe)
"The mind, once stretched by a new idea, never returns to its original dimensions."
"Even the simple act which we describe as ‘seeing someone we know’ is to some extent an intellectual process. We pack the physical outline of the person we see with all the notions we have already formed about him, and in the total picture of him which we compose in our minds those notions have certainly the principal place."
Marcel Proust, Remembrance of Things Past (Swann’s Way), translation by C.K. Scot Moncrieff (via play-laugh-yoga)
(Source: playlaughyoga, via andanonymity)
"I am passionate about everything in my life — first and foremost, passionate about ideas. And that’s a dangerous person to be in this society, not just because I’m a woman, but because it’s such a fundamentally anti-intellectual, anti-critical thinking society."
bell hooks (via twocatsandatrombone)
(Source: 1000profoundvirtues, via morningchai)
