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Most people fear confusion, but I think confusion is the truth and I seek it out. …The truth I’m talking about is the stuff that gets distorted and compromised every time you write something down or open your mouth to speak, ­because your priority when communicating isn’t to represent your thoughts or feelings exactly but to make sense, to appear sane and comprehensible and ­appealing. I like working within that impossibility.

—Dennis Cooper, from The Paris Review interview

http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/6098/the-art-of-fiction-no-213-dennis-cooper

(via torturegardens)

(Source: teenagehallucination, via torturegardens)

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oxane:

Ana Teresa Barboza
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fuckyeahillustrativeart:

By Deshi Deng
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Her name was October. She wears funeral dresses underneath big hoodies. And if you asked her why, she’ll say she always wanted to look pretty when death comes swiftly. She has brown-emerald eyes, almost like a murky pond. She reminds you of peculiar dolls on old town stores. With her cherub face and lollipop smudge tongue. The mismatched knee-high socks and ballet shoes. The sparrow tattoo peeking out her nape, the remembrance of losing a mother she never really knew. That half-smile she does, when a song plays ironically after an awkward moment. The way she takes her coffee in a rainy day: two cream, three sugar. She prefers birds over cats, but she always loved having a dog. She cries easily on movies and in weddings. Her fingers smell like old library books and lemonade. Her alabaster skin, and how the sun hits it as if there are braille inscriptions waiting to be read. And how your heart pounds the ground you stand, just by staring at her— looking at you. Her lips are succulent strawberry pillows, you’d forever linger. The taste of her, like your favorite song on repeat while you smoke pink smokes in the air. You drown in that beautiful capture and hope in all your might it does not end. The feel of her in your arms while you lay in bed, the serenity you sought untrue but it does exist. And you cry, happy tears streaming your face. And her delicate finger wipes them away, and smile that wonderful, bright smile. And right there and then, the sun should be shamed and the moon could be sold. You had everything you need, right there in your hold.

You need to remember all these things.
Pieces of who she is, she was and she will ever be.
The only bright sun and beautiful gray cloud in your life.

You need to.
You have to.

Because, she is not just a part of your life. She is the life you will always keep repeating. A life well-spent, indeed. To be hers, and her to be yours.

You love her, and always will.

You have to, need to—

October flowers and missing pages: A letter from a man to himself as he slowly deteriorates to Alzheimer. -s.p.  (via mystrangesilhouettes)

(via mystrangesilhouettes)

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posted 4 days ago with: 15,235 notes reblog

lazykryptonian:

allybearlove:

peachberrylove:

souleeater:

babysbreathflower:

sharpedos:

Medusa and her blind boyfriend go out on their first date and he panics because he cant tell her she looks pretty so he says something really stupid like “I REALLY like snakes”

This is so fucking cute

this should be a young adult romance novel right now

image

image

image

image

Had a sudden urge to draw this.

Omg i need more

oh my god

(Source: popularly, via chthoni4n)

254,772 notes
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posted 4 days ago with: 417 notes reblog
everydayamermaid:

by Shishir Naik