(via pavorst)
Lisel Mueller, “Things”
(Source: aseaofquotes)
Like/ checkout this online lingerie shop, soon to open!
Know you alter-ego at: https://www.facebook.com/Ms.AlterEgo
the story of her skin allowed no man to use mouth or pen to immortalize
her, in between the moon and dinnersteaks,
there was no route that would lead her home
there was no book that told,
no poem that favored her,
no mornings that gave justice to her complexion,
no roses could compare
no ballad could ever be sung to revive her
thus, this was the story of her skin:
untrue and unreliable,
as honest as the word: Lover
She sought to write on water
so that the sea could keep her stories safe
so she went to the beach every Sunday
and sat where the sand was fickle,
where it was either thirsty or wet
she would whisper to the wind through songs
she made up in her head
‘I could be naked, I could be alright’
and the sea always spoke to her
in little pebbles and hermit crabs
Kate Moss and Johnny Depp in 1994
The Perseids are a prolific meteor shower associated with the comet Swift-Tuttle. The Perseids are so-called because the point from which they appear to come, called the radiant, lies in the constellation Perseus.
(Source: ikenbot, via loveyourchaos)
(Source: thetangibleillusion, via pi-stachioesque)
(via leonmcgann)
"She had a poignantly vacant, vulnerable quality that made her a reflection of everybody’s private fantasies. She could be anything you wanted her to be — a little girl, a woman, intelligent, dumb, rich, poor — anything. She was a wonderful, beautiful blank. The mystique to end all mystiques."
— Andy Warhol on Edie Sedgwick
(Source: iwishihadanocean, via iwishihadanocean)
We run back and forth (Scene 2)
There was a thousand cigarette butts lying dead on the floor. Smoke replaces light in the evenings, the only markers for lips waiting to be kissed. Citizens run, counting money, counting the times they forgot their keys inside the refrigerator.
Then all of them stop for a bum. No one denies another of a light. It’s a universal truth that our intimacies remain subtexted in every shared puff. The smokers never wage war.
