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You never know how sick you are until you try to recover.

— (via whismical)

08.20.14 ♥ 89971

oldbookillustrations:

Kindling a large fire, he roasted him and ate him for supper.

Louis Rhead, from The Arabian nights’ entertainments, New York, London, 1916.

(Source: archive.org)

07.26.14 ♥ 495
06.15.14 ♥ 20116

seventyandseven:

Crowning a Queen

06.15.14 ♥ 3
The wisest tongue is the one that speaks of revolution.

— G.G.T. (MMXI)

06.15.14 ♥ 1
05.19.14 ♥ 228
Poetry is the way I fuck you when you’re gone.

— Nicola Cayless, Literary Sexts  (via rampias)

05.19.14 ♥ 30062
You never really know what’s coming. A small wave, or maybe a big one. All you can really do is hope that when it comes, you can surf over it, instead of drown in its monstrosity.

— Alysha Speer (via observando)

I want a dress the colour of suffering.

— Rachilde, The Marquise de Sade (via rabbitinthemoon)

05.19.14 ♥ 3270
I am accused. I dream of massacres.
I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them,
Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the
world conceives
Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.

— Sylvia Plath, Three Women: A Poem for Three Voices (via seabois)

05.04.14 ♥ 1956
04.30.14 ♥ 1518
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04.30.14 ♥ 66900