Oh Danikova


waking up to wake up someday


missgilda:

Françoise Hardy photographed in Paris by Jean-Marie Périer, 1962.

expanse as a prison

greenish-orange:

at night i look to the sky
in supplication and think,
god, i am so small,
so insignificant compared to the universe.
please fill this void, drown out the emptiness.
but the stars ignore my prayers and say
you are no longer a child;
you aren’t allowed to run away.

viperslang:

i want to wake up
- the smallest petal
              cocooned
inside the hummingbird
aria penciled at the genuflection
of your forearm underlined by mine
i want to rise from this bed
as a fog of frankincense
cursive tufts of sunshine
i want to accept
the impeccable tenderness
of our dawn-feathered grins
unfold. unpin. undo.
dictate a conversation of kisses.
close
the parentheses our bodies form
when written next to each other.

Scherezade Siobhan©


2014 Toray Pan Pacific Open Champion; Ana Ivanovic

2014 Toray Pan Pacific Open Champion; Ana Ivanovic

My blood was in a fervent within me, my heart full of longing, sweetly and foolishly; I was all expectancy and wonder; I was tremulous and waiting; my fancy fluttered about the same images like martins round a bell tower at dawn; I dreamed and was sad and sometimes cried. But through the tears and the melancholy, inspired by the beauty of verse or the beauty of the evening, there always rose upwards, like the grasses of early spring, shoots of happy feeling, of young and surging life.
—Ivan Turgenev, First Love (via paperswallow)
But I do not wish to escape to myself, I wish to escape from myself. I wish to obliterate my consciousness and my knowledge of independent existence, my guilts, my secretiveness, what you would (perhaps unkindly) call my “hypocrisy”. I am no child of nature, I am ugly and imperfect to myself, and I cannot through poetry or romantic visions exalt myself to symbolic glory.
—Allen Ginsberg, in a letter to Jack Kerouac (via theunquotables)
She is rotting quietly under her skirts with a melancholy smile, like the odour of violets given off by a decomposing body.
—Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea (via cactuslungs)

(Source: eugenehl)

I used to walk into a room full of people and wonder if they liked me… now I look around and wonder if I like them.

(Source: xoxxie)