Did You Let Me Die In Your Arms In The Timeloop

ok ok jmart kiss today<33

une passion pour jeanne d’arc, stella tennant by paolo roversi for vogue paris february 1994

If we’re being honest, most of us study our favourite character less like an entomologist studies a bug and more like an astronomer studies a distant star: drawing complicated inferences from extremely limited data, then getting tetchy about it when somebody else draws incompatible but equally well-supported inferences from the same data because it’s the fucking principle of the thing.

Tfw you'll live forever but only in fragments 🙄🙄🙄

fitzjames petting neptune. if you even care.

ppl are asking questions like, "how do i get out of this labyrinth" and "this is horribole why would anyone build this" but i think we shoudl be asking questions like "why dont the others love the labyrinth as much as i do" and "how do i make tgem love the labyrinth"

thinking… about… um

Season 1 and 4 sketches :D

writers and artists will go "this isn't good enough." my brother in christ, you're creating something new out of nothing and expressing yourself creatively. your productivity and unrealistic standards of perfection do not define you or the worth of your art. you're doing great.

Oh, what a happy fate, to sit in the silent room of an ancestral house among the quiet things in their abiding places, and to hear the tits sounding their first notes outside in the green and sun-shot garden, and away in the distance the village clock. To sit and gaze upon a warm strip of afternoon sunlight and to know a great deal about girls from the past and to be a poet. And to think that I too might have become such a poet if I had been able to live somewhere, anywhere on earth, in one of the many closed-up country houses that no one looks after. I would have required only one room (the sunny room under the gables). There I would have lived with my old things, my family portraits, my books. And I would have had an armchair and flowers and dogs and a stout stick for the stony paths. And nothing else. Nothing but a book bound in yellowish, ivory-coloured leather with old-style floral endpapers: in this I would have written.

from The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge by Rainer Maria Rilke