Wingsfortheirsmiles

ex0skeletal:

(by AC44 on deviantART)

(via sereinmortal)

Every word we utter is but the utterance of a drowsy phantom in our blood, the opening of the lips of a spectre. For this reason
in rare moments of self-consciousness our voice sounds strange, far away, not ours. It is the sudden perception of that great
truth: We are not ourselves.
Benjamin De Casseres, Chameleon  (via poeticsofdeath)

(Source: anniewok)

This is the awe-inspiring universe of magic: There are no atoms, only waves and motions all around. Here, you discard all belief in barriers to understanding. You put aside understanding itself. This universe cannot be seen, cannot be heard, cannot be detected in any way by fixed perceptions. It is the ultimate void where no preordained screens occur upon which forms may be projected. You have only one awareness here—the screen of the magi: Imagination! Here, you learn what it is to be human. You are a creator of order, of beautiful shapes and system, an organizer of chaos.
Frank Herbert  (via poeticalscience)

(Source: amphetamine-tea, via spiffybiffy)

As far as I am concerned, I resign from humanity. I no longer want to be, nor can still be, a man. What should I do? Work for a social and political system, make a girl miserable? Hunt for weaknesses in philosophical systems, fight for moral and esthetic ideals? It’s all too little. I renounce my humanity even though I may find myself alone. But am I not already alone in this world from which I no longer expect anything?
Emil Cioran, On the Heights of Despair (via acontentmentwithobscurity)

(Source: susiediamonds, via cafeteriabananas)

(Source: bookshavepores, via injusticeworth)

victoriousvocabulary:

CEPHALOPHORE Leon Bonnat

victoriousvocabulary:

CEPHALOPHORE Leon Bonnat

(via spiffybiffy)

At this moment I do not believe in anything and I have no hope. All forms and expressions that give life its charm seem to me meaningless. I have no feeling either for the future or the past, while the present seems to me poison.
Emil Cioran, On the Heights of Despair (via blacktout)
luisantoniosantos:

Luis Antonio Santos
Untitled (Ulysses), 2014
Oil on canvas, 5 x 5 feet

luisantoniosantos:

Luis Antonio Santos

Untitled (Ulysses), 2014

Oil on canvas, 5 x 5 feet

(via thepkdickhead)

Our thoughts, in the pay of our panic, are oriented toward the future, follow the trial of all fear, open out onto death. And we invert their course, we send them backward when we direct them toward birth and force them to linger upon it. Thereby they lose even that vigor, that unappeasable tension which underlies the horror of death and which is useful to our thoughts if they would grow, develop, gather force. Hence we see why, by taking a contrary trajectory, they lack spirit and are so weary, when at last they come up against their initial frontier, that they no longer have the energy to look beyond, toward the “never-born”.
E. M. Cioran, The Trouble With Being Born (via postmortemdecay666)
lottereinigerforever:

"Un chien andalou“‘s poster

lottereinigerforever:

"Un chien andalou“‘s poster

(Source: locomotic)

I realized I had no friends. Besides, even if I had had, I shouldn’t be any better off. If I had been able to commit suicide and then see their reaction, why, then the game would have been worth the candle. But the earth is dark, darling friend, the coffin thick, and the shroud opaque; The eyes of the soul—to be sure—if there is a soul and it has eyes! But you see, we’re not sure, we can’t be sure. Otherwise, there would be a solution; at least one could get oneself taken seriously. People are never convinced of your reasons, of your sincerity, of the seriousness of your sufferings, except by your death. So long as you are alive, your case is doubtful; you have a right only to their skepticism. So if there were the least certainty that one could enjoy theshow, it would be worth proving to them what they are unwilling to believe and thus amazing them. But you kill yourself and what does it matter whether or not they believe you? You are not there to see their amazement and their contrition (fleeting at best), to witness, according to every one’s dream, your own funeral. In order to cease being a doubtful case, one has to cease being, that’s all. Besides, isn’t it better thus? We’d suffer too much from their indifference.
Albert Camus, The Fall (via blackestdespondency)

(via blackestdespondency)

(Source: love-portlandia, via fyportlandia)

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