I didn’t get the materials to complete the case tonight, so I added to the compass outline – three sparrows and a quote from Ulysses by James Joyce, “all or not at all”





alonesomes:

Let me tell you how you will be loved.
Well and honest.
Patiently and reverently.
Truly and unapologetically.
With the lights on. With the lights off.
With no one but the moon watching.
With everyone watching.
Bravely. Freely.
Always. Closely. Happily.
Let me tell me where you will find
that love.
In your own hands first, baby.
In your own damn hands.





Anonymous: "What are threesomes like...."

From what I’ve heard:

image

Like that.

-

d.a.s





Branches scraping the boarded windows sound like something trying to claw its way inside, and the wind howls like the voice of that animal, a low, wounded moan.

It’s been twenty years.

I was worried I’d live forever.

— From “Galveston” by Nic Pizzolatto (via youpretentiousyou)
posted 4 hours ago with 70 notes - via
#oh god #quote




czechthecount:

Lions Gate Bridge

posted 4 hours ago with 11,127 notes - via
#ooooh #gif #photography




Anonymous: "Are you online? x"

Am I alive? Then yes.

-

d.a.s









They call us killers, honey,
I say with teeth clenched around your jugular.
You’ve got them graveyard hands,
nails dredged up from diamond mines,
bones screaming bloody murder.
I wear combat boots and only smoke Camels,
like how you look with a noose around your neck.
Teach me to breathe poetry in the hollows
of your spine, bruise my name down your back.
With teeth made of cigarette smoke
and wrists of chewed leather,
I keep you perched on pretty legs
in the passenger seat of my father’s old car,
radio turned to love songs we never learned to sing.
We weren’t made for that marrying kind of tender;
we kiss like addicts hungry for a hit.
We are fighters, not lovers –
poets who plot murders and get drunk
to find God or our mothers’ ghosts,
spend all our time applying assonance to bar fights.
You’re good for alliterations and throwing punches,
you keep the boys hungry and on their knees.
I’m not good for much at all, baby,
A useless kid with knuckles bruised from living –
Killers, honey, killers.
— This Is What They Call Us | d.a.s






indaymusic:

3 Rounds And A Sound | Blind Pilot

I hope we dance tonight
Before we get it wrong





lilac-lungs:

I am the sea and nobody owns me
I belong to myself
I am the sky and I am mine
I am mine

posted 6 hours ago with 341 notes - via
#I am mine


THEME ©