“Everybody’s talking and no one says a word. Everybody’s making love and no one really cares. Always something happening, and nothing going on. Nobody told me there’d be days like these. Strange days indeed.”—John Lennon, “Nobody Told Me” (via chocolate-cigarettes)
Eight years to the day since music lost one of its greatest talents. Eight years to the day since Paul and Ringo lost their bandmate and friend. Eight years to the day since Olivia lost her husband and Dhani lost his father. Eight years to the day since the world lost one of the most amazing men ever.
His music still lives on and it always will. His liveliness still lives on and it always will.
I hope you’ve found what you’ve been looking for George. I hope you’re found complete happiness. I hope you’ve found peace.
George Harrison February 25, 1943 - November 29, 2001
“When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn’t know.
“Oh, sure you know,” the photographer said.
“She wants,” said Jay Cee wittily, “to be everything.”—Sylvia Plath - The Bell Jar (via liquidnight) (via tigerlilyinwonderland) (via valium-n-chanel)
12847.) I'd rather NOT have society force me to starve myself, make me buy skintight clothes I hate, judge me on my looks, and drive me into sex before I'm ready. I'd rather live as the truly beautiful person that only my heart knows I am.
“Touching him was always so important to me. It was something I lived for. I never could explain why. Little nothing touches. My skin against his shoulder. The outsides of our thighs touching as we squeezed together on the bus. I couldn’t explain it, but I needed it. Sometimes I imagined stitching all of our little touches together. How many thousands of fingers brushing against each other does it take to make love?”—Johnathan Safron Foer, Extremely Loud And Incredibly Close (via starsmending)
Never have I been A painter, an artist never known what it is To make colors Dance. But I, eyes shut naked, with these tips of these fingers as brushes paint. I paint your breasts bare With soft shadow cradled in my hands. Your hair like smoke spilling onto my chest, your eyes lost in me. My fingers, my brushes smooth and silken the deep hues your skin, my fingers brush up your legs quietly tracing The contours that are You. Thighs end with puddled paint covered by my bareness. Love is canvas as I paint you in pieces, never have I been a painter an artist but in our bed, my fingers paint your nakedness our intimacy a masterpiece. -Tyler Knott Gregson-
*I thought I posted this before, but I couldn’t find it. So, here you go.
If you're skinny, people will call you anorexic. If you're intelligent, people will call you a smartass. If you are pretty, people will call you fake. No matter what, people will always find something wrong with you. The trick? Just don't give a fuck.
“Along the way you bump into people who make a dent on your life. Some people get struck by lightning. Some are born to sit by a river. Some have an ear for music. Some are artists. Some swim the English Channel. Some know buttons. Some know Shakespeare. Some are mothers. And some people can dance.”—(the curious case of benjamin button) (via indecisivecanvas) (via ranga-sauce)