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August 23 2017

I have done nothing all summer but wait for myself to be myself again —
— Georgia O’Keeffe, in a letter to Russel Vernon Hunter, from Georgia O’Keeffe: Art and Letters
(via luthienne)
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Reposted fromministerium ministerium viacandycamilla candycamilla
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livebloggingmydescentintomadness:

ffermented-salmonella:

goddessolga:

since1938:

My man Jesus

What story is that?

Matthew 18:9

“And if your eye causes you to sin, gouge it out and throw it away.”

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Reposted fromAmericanlover Americanlover vialatusek latusek
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Możesz mnie lubić albo nie lubić ponieważ ponad 20 lat uczyłem się jak pokochać siebie i nie mam takiej ilości czasu, aby przekonywać do tego kogoś innego.
— Daniel Franzese
Reposted fromcorvax corvax viajointskurwysyn jointskurwysyn
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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. 
— Pablo Neruda, The Saddest Poem
Reposted fromintotheblack intotheblack
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Reposted fromOnlyYellow OnlyYellow vialove-autumn love-autumn
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Reposted frompogromcazelkow pogromcazelkow viaou ou
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Reposted fromtwice twice viaou ou
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