Leaf-Tinted Indian Summer

Everybody is making love, or else expecting rain.






Sasha Luss - Backstage at Gareth Pugh S/S14, PFW


Oh my gosh

she is perfffect


"Transporting ‘Untitled’ by Christopher Wool, 1992 (right) and part of the triptych ‘Untitled (Men in the Cities) by Robert Longo (left)."Foto: Martijn van Nieuwenhuyzen (Stedelijk) 

my kind of smoothie
"Writers are supposed to fail, and then perhaps fail better, and then perhaps even to do something great: create something that is rare and true, that tells us what we did not know; something, most likely, that the writer learned only in the writing, a process that is terrifying and gloomy and, above all, without guarantees."
-Miriam Markowitz, from “Here Comes Everybody,” The Nation (December 9, 2013)
"touch isn’t really touch until you learn there’s more to it than what you can feel with your hands."
-Overlyxclusive (via kushandwizdom)
"I’m awful about your name. I still jump when I hear it. I still feel it rattling somewhere in my stomach. I think I’m jealous of anyone that gets to say it because it’s not my right anymore. Years from now I’ll be standing in a supermarket and someone will casually brush past me, your name falling from their mouth like confetti. I’ll drop everything that I’m holding. My knees will wobble in the way they only did when I was with you. Years from now I’ll still remember how your name tasted in my mouth and I’ll have to start missing you all over again."
-Azra.T “Aisle 3” (via 5000letters)

1. Be unhappy with me. Let’s make breaking a little less lonely than a single raindrop the waves had forgotten in times of storm clouds and too thick mist.

2. Do you know that the word bless, etymologically means, “to sprinkle with blood”? So when I say I am blessed to have you, I also meant it during the pain, and the madness, and everything that comes in cracked sidewalks and accidents.

3. My sadness is like a maze of dominoes that even a feather can cause a war with its falling and tumbling but your hands were careful enough. If your hands could speak, it would say number four.

4. “Every single one of my fingers carry a million safety nets, so jump right through. Darling, jump right through and I’d have you lying on my thumb and that’s when I know I have saved you.”

5. My lungs are often cobweb-wrapped and dust-thirsty for a feeling a little lesser than what I have inside me. But love was an exception when you said “I’ll be sad with you too. I’ll have any part of that feeling if you let me. Just let me. ”

-The Things We Say When Sadness Comes, Kharla M. Brillo (via pouvoires)


Please be nice it makes everyone’s quality of life 100% better


Perfection is carrot cake #oatmeal with figs, sliced banana, homemade peanut butter, blueberries🙏 Happy Sunday!

A cigarette lighter, a cough drop, a postage stamp, a slightly bent cigarette, a toothpick, a handkerchief, a pen, two five-shekel coins. That’s only a fraction of what I have in my pockets. So is it any wonder they bulge? Lots of people mention it. They say, “What the fuck do you have in your pockets?” Most of the time I don’t answer, I just smile, sometimes I even give a short, polite laugh. As if someone told me a joke. If they were to persist and ask me again, I’d probably show them everything I have, I might even explain why I need all that stuff on me, always. But they don’t. What the fuck, a smile/a short laugh, an awkward silence, and we’re on to the next subject.

The fact is that everything I have in my pockets is carefully chosen so I’ll always be prepared. Everything is there so I can be at an advantage at the moment of truth. Actually, that’s not accurate. Everything’s there so I won’t be at a disadvantage at the moment of truth. Because what kind of advantage can a wooden toothpick or a postage stamp really give you? But if, for example, a beautiful girl—you know what, not even beautiful, just charming, an ordinary looking girl with an entrancing smile that takes your breath away—asks you for a stamp, or doesn’t even ask, just stands there on the street next to a red mailbox on a rainy night with a stampless envelope in her hand and wonders if you happen to know where there’s an open post office at that hour, and then gives a little cough because she’s cold, but also desperate, since deep in her heart, she knows that there’s no open post office in the area, definitely not at that hour, and at that moment, that moment of truth, she won’t say “What the fuck do you have in your pockets,” but she’ll be so grateful for the stamp, maybe not even grateful, she’ll just smile that entrancing smile of hers, an entrancing smile for a postage stamp—I’d go for a deal like that anytime, even if the price of stamps soars and the price of smiles plummets.

After the smile, she’ll say thank you and cough again, because of the cold, but also because she’s a little embarrassed. And I’ll offer her a cough drop. “What else do you have in your pockets?” she’ll ask, but gently, without the “fuck” and without the negativity, and I’ll answer without hesitation: everything you’ll ever need, my love. Everything you’ll ever need.

So now you know. That’s what I have in my pockets. A chance not to screw up. A slight chance. Not big, not even probable. I know that, I’m not stupid. A tiny chance, let’s say, that when happiness comes along, I can say “yes” to it, and not “Sorry, I don’t have a cigarette/toothpick/coin for the soda machine.” That’s what I have there, full and bulging, a tiny chance of saying yes and not being sorry

-"What Do We Have In Our Pockets," Etgar Keret (via commovente)

Silvia Grav