You were red. You liked me cause I was blue. You touched me and suddenly I was a lilac sky and you decided purple just wasn’t for you.
The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.
T.S. Eliot (via cassoday)

(Source: peterthewebslingerparker, via sadmale)

Wednesday / 502 notes / reblog
Don’t break a writer’s heart and think ink won’t spill.
Ten Word Story #38 - M.D.L (via mingdliu)

(via sadmale)

Wednesday / 3,503 notes / reblog
Wednesday / 25,377 notes / reblog
Wednesday / 7,691 notes / reblog

Mark Klett, Viewing Thomas Moran at the Source, 2000
I know it’s over, and it never really began, but in my heart it was so real.
The Smiths (via echoesofsilencexo)

(via sadmale)

You’re not even old enough to know how bad life gets.”

“Obviously doctor, you’ve never been a thirteen year old girl.

The Virgin Suicides (via perfect)

(Source: acihdic, via kuavai)

Monday / 18,149 notes / reblog
I feel very small and freakishly large at once. Critical and insignificant. At the very center of things and at the farthest edge.
Bill Clegg, Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man (via larmoyante)

(via x50)

I said goodbye again
sucking up all that was left of her into the
little that was left of me.
I said, don’t look for me again. fuck it.
we are all lost. goodbye, goodbye.
 Charles Bukowski, The People Look Like Flowers at Last (via wanduring)

(Source: feellng, via wanduring)

Monday / 1,914 notes / reblog
Monday / 33,481 notes / reblog
Monday / 209,326 notes / reblog