New York. (1955). Photographed by Eliot Erwitt.

(Source: photographyspast, via dostoyevskyreader)

My neck tattoo! With my parents’ birthdates (:

I’m so unphotogenic what am I going to do when I’m famous

(Source: donnermaysilee, via braydaaan)


train faces on my morning commute.

(via piercingsandink)


the road to success is under construction

(via braydaaan)



it sucks being the ugly quiet rude sarcastic emotionally unstable friend with the attention span of a goldfish

i’ve never read something so accurate

(Source: siriusblaack, via braydaaan)


It’s enough for me to be sure that you and I exist at this moment.

Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude (via larmoyante)

(via hollowsouls)

Love is madness, I tell you.

When I saw you by day, you lit up

my world and singed me with your

flame as I approached: so you

became the sun to me.

When my mind drifted at night,

thoughts of you swayed my soul

from afar, tugging gently on the

tides of my heart: and you became

my moon.

And when you walked all over me

and rendered me the earth beneath

your feet. I knew it could only

mean I was the world to you.

Oh what delusions and madness

does breed

this thing called love.

- Shakieb Orgunwall

Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?

We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.

They can keep their heaven. When I die, I’d sooner go to Middle-Earth.

- George R. R. Martin

(Source: chelseawoosh, via fallensnow)


Paul McCartney playing an acoustic guitar