Polaroids I Took Of Arctic Monkeys At The Music Hall Of Williamsburg On October 19th, 2011. 

another vinted purchase on the way… this is getting bad

for the first time in years I didn't see Alex Turner's letter to Alexa Chung on Valentine's Day. I don't know if I should be scared for culture or thankful.

An incomplete list of Palestinians killed in 2022 labeled by name, age, date and location of death.

nazzalstudio

Sofia Coppola at the Venice Film Festival in 2003 and 2023.

The illiterate is just like the blindfolded – misfortune and bad luck awaits him everywhere.

by Aleksei Aleksandrovich Radakov (1920)

hi human baby, I feel so exhausted all the time with the expectations of my desires, but I never act on them because I never feel good enough. I’m so tired of trying to be good enough. I want to write, but it feels so selfish and pointless. But we both know that’s really a flimsy cover for terror. I know I must let go of this desire, but the grief is overwhelming. What do I do?

Do you want to write? Or do you want to be the person that writes? The first sounds like desire. The second sounds more like expectation. Actually, desire is pure, and it overrides any belief about what you should or should not be. Your actions become a map of your desires. Your life becomes it's portrait. Yours tells me that you want to hide. But how am I supposed to love you if I do not know you?

Peter Do

You notice it first as April ends and May begins, a change in the season, not exactly a warming-in fact not at all a warming-yet suddenly summer seems near, a possibility, even a promise. You pass a window, you walk to Central Park, you find yourself swimming in the colour blue: the actual light is blue, and over the course of an hour or so this blue deepens, becomes more intense even as it darkens and fades, approximates finally the blue of the glass on a clear day at Chartres, or that of the Cerenkov radiation thrown off by the fuel rods in the pools of nuclear reactors. The French called this time of day "I'heure bleue." To the English it was "the gloaming." The very word "gloaming" reverberates, echoes—the gloaming, the glimmer, the glitter, the glisten, the glamour-carrying in its consonants the images of houses shuttering, gardens darkening, grass-lined rivers slipping through the shadows.

Joan Didion, Blue Nights