Move. As far as you can, as much as you can. Across the ocean, or simply across the river. Walk in someone else’s shoes or at least eat their food. Open your mind, get off the couch, move.

Anthony Bourdain (via obscurafilms)

(via obscurafilms)

Pedestrians avoid a pool of blood descending into the Munich Metro

Photo credit: © Stuart Palley

(via tat-art)

I used to analyze myself down to the last thread, used to compare myself with others, recalled all the smallest glances, smiles and words of those to whom I’d tried to be frank, interpreted everything in a bad light, laughed viciously at my attempts ‘to be like the rest’ –and suddenly, in the midst of my laughing, I’d give way to sadness, fall into ludicrous despondency and once again start the whole process all over again – in short, I went round and round like a squirrel on a wheel.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Crime and Punishment

(via tat-art)


I want to be born 

like a dive -

Head first, with hardly a splash.

I want to grow

like a germinating seed

eagerly, with no

world weariness.

I want to live

like a dream

seemingly sober, yet

not quite.

But what I want most:

I want to die in a car crash;

go with a bang - 

A flash of light 

and the whole world ends.

1 week ago on 04/14/14 at 12:50pm

in athens suddenly


If you awoke one morning
and found yourself in Athens
on the steps of the Acropolis
you would see the birds eating
in the olive trees and smell
the aroma of myrrh and see
the view of the sea and realize
the white symbol goddess
draped in papyrus
looking at you with big oval eyes
holding her hand out to you
with a smile and a promise
of a life unafraid of dying.

Susanna Vento

(via the absolute DESIGN blog…)

(via alex-quisite)


Wilhelm von Gloeden      Young Girl, Taormina, Sicily       c.1890

(via homicidalbrunette)



(via minimal-o)

The broken bowl

It felt like he was cradling a bowl breaking into shards in his arm - it was impossible, of course, but he tried anyway. The idea was like clutching at straws, only knowing that everything was eventually futile, and the straw would not be able to save you in the end.

She stood and watched, from the dark corner. Watched as the breaking shards cut into the boy’s arms. As the invisible blood spilled over and splashed, soundless, on the cold marble floor. It did not matter whether she was there or not, but she was there anyway. The smoke from her cigarette created the illusion of fog, cold and unforgiving, choking and blinding.

But it was welcome to him. The smoke and its choking blinds meant that it was okay. To let go. To not hold the bowl anymore. To put down his tired, tired, arms and rest.

No one knows when he will wake up.

1 month ago on 03/23/14 at 01:59pm

We travel for romance, we travel for architecture, and we travel to be lost.

Ray Bradbury  (via fluoroid)

(via robyn-la)