The human body is not a thing or substance, given, but a continuous creation.
The human body is an energy system which is never a complete structure; never static; is in perpetual inner self-construction and self-destruction; we destroy in order to make it new.
Norman O. Brown (via ratak-monodosico, invisiblestories)
scandyfactory:

photography by Peter Beste

scandyfactory:

photography by Peter Beste

christopher-walken:

(via moscowandberlin)

Certain accents I find hypnotic , Iraq , Norwegian,Canadian , but most of all Norwegian spoken with a heavy british accent.-Baxby

my-ear-trumpet:

froghair:

If you build it, they will drown…

my-ear-trumpet:

froghair:

If you build it, they will drown…

ratak-monodosico:

I saw this painting at a museum in London.  I just could not stop staring at it.  It is an enormous painting by Delaroche depicting the execution of Lady Jane Grey, Queen of England for only nine days (the shortest in history). She was executed only because of her father’s involvement in a rebellion against Queen Mary. She was 17 years old.


It just kind of touched my heart and made me really sad. I’ve never been so moved by a painting. It’s perhaps because she just looks so young and beautiful and innocent..and after learning the story, it only made me sadder. It’s crazy how art can move you.



(via toutlemondeamoi)

ratak-monodosico:

I saw this painting at a museum in London.  I just could not stop staring at it.  It is an enormous painting by Delaroche depicting the execution of Lady Jane Grey, Queen of England for only nine days (the shortest in history). She was executed only because of her father’s involvement in a rebellion against Queen Mary. She was 17 years old.

It just kind of touched my heart and made me really sad. I’ve never been so moved by a painting. It’s perhaps because she just looks so young and beautiful and innocent..and after learning the story, it only made me sadder. It’s crazy how art can move you.

(via toutlemondeamoi)

transylvanianmisanthropy:

Own
snakes become eyes

Where in time have i been lost , thrown to mercies of the night ,

Vessel to carry , weak as an eye not steeled , Parry advance of the maidens hand

Coming home now,the freedom of the waves , washing over me

Sicknes incarnate in the movements I attempt

mer-et-soleil:

Oh, gentlemen, perhaps I really regard myself as an intelligent man only because throughout my entire life I’ve never been able to start or finish anything. Granted, granted I’m a babbler, a harmless, irksome babbler, as we all are. But what’s to be done if the sole and express purpose of every intelligent man is babble- that is, a deliberate pouring from empty into void?

Dostoevsky’s Notes from the Underground.