I Am Going To Check The Despair. I Am On This Earth To Read The Poems My Friends Write And To Fall In

Notebooks 1951-1959 by Albert Camus // The Knight of the Flowers (detail) by Georges Rochegrosse // The Way to Keep Going in Antarctica by Bernadette Mayer // Little Weirds by Jenny Slate // Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre // The Fairy Glen by Steve Gill // The Carrying by Ada Limón // All the Gay Saints by Kayleb Rae Candrilli // Mirrors X by Nikki Giovanni // The Poet by Reynier Llanes // The Wanderings of Oisin by W.B Yeats // Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke // Letter to Gustave Flaubert X by George Sand // When I Grow Up I Want to Be a List of Further Possibilities by Chen Chen // Waterlilies by Claude Monet

The best boy

Beauty makes promises that beauty cant keep. I've seen it too many times.

— Cormac McCarthy, The Passenger

reblog this if your blog is a safe space on april fools and won’t have any jumpers, screamers, or anything scary or anxiety inducing

i love when random tumblr users find my blog and go through it liking and reblogging everything in a frenzy, it feels like i’ve been cultivating a nice backyard with a lovely birdbath and feeder and i’ve glanced out the window to see a bird going absolutely wild with it

Her fluttered spirit, delicate and soft, bumping against the lamp of life, too hard, too glassy,

Vita Sackville-West, from her poem "In Memoriam: Virginia Woolf" published in The Observer on 6 April 1941

The heart is the only type of muscle with zero fuel reserves. It is totally dependent on its fuel supply. Cut its fuel supply off and it won't last long, but it will beat tirelessly and relentlessly as long as it has fuel. It makes me wonder if we are we really that naive to think that love will be eternal when we don't  take care of it, when we do not nurture it or feed it? And yet we expect love to go on till the end like some super marathon runner who can go on and on, and not refuel at all during the race? Is it really surprising when love collapses at some point of the way? Love lives in a human heart, a delicate one at that, a very mortal and needing heart. 

e.v.e.