My life keeps going without me in it.
Nicola Maye Goldberg, from The Doll Factory (via lifeinpoetry)

(via lifeinpoetry)


oldblueeyes:

unimpressedcats:

yumyumyum

In appreciation of the face on cat #2.

(via xingahead)


She is dead,
but there is beauty,
a white rose;
H.D., from Selected Poems; “Priest,”
(via violentwavesofemotion)

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She kept changing back and forth. She kept pretending to die and then being resurrected.

She was a strange one. One might say she had a calling. Death and then rebirth. A calling indeed.
Anne Sexton, from The Book of Folly; “The Ballet of the Buffon,”
(via violentwavesofemotion)

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Breakfast, then, with the toast and jam, bacon and coffee, all good-smelling and warm, with outside the sun-bright pieces of the day waiting. You talking with all, and I listening, thinking, oh, I want a lot to grow to know you. And subsequently, during day and night and day again, talking, looking, exchanging laughter. Your hair long, black, combed back, and your eyes, the most wonderful part when flashing back a look of appreciative understanding, dark to blackness, blazing laughter.

Today I will walk in the sun. I will simply walk in the sun.

It is easy for me to love, to hold someone in affectionate confirmation, even when I can see quite plainly that the feeling is quixotic. I have always been mystified by the speed with which people condemn one another.

orlandcbloom:

Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema,The Roses of Heliogabalus (1888) details.

(via daesyparts)


What I remember most is how beautiful everybody was, and of course the beautiful clothes; we dressed up as Medieval damsels and princes, pirates, pre-Raphaelite Madonnas, popes, hussars, mad hatters, and creatures visiting from other planets.
Marianne Faithfull describing the 1960s in Memories, Dreams & Reflections. (via groupiesoutrageously)

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