iamadivergente:

Instrumentos Mortais no We Heart It - http://weheartit.com/entry/76288775

iamadivergente:

Instrumentos Mortais no We Heart It - http://weheartit.com/entry/76288775

firelorcl:

dermatologists HATE me. everyone hates me. i’m so alone

snoia:

i literally have no idea what im gonna do if i dont end up rich

I love the rain. I love how it softens the outlines of things. The world becomes softly blurred, and I feel like I melt right into it.

Hanamoto HagumiHoney and Clover (via nordravn)

5starcinema:

The Love Song of I, Robert Mitchum
Let us go then, you and I,
When the Klieg lamps are spread out against the sky
and I’m as drunk as a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
the muttering retreats
of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
and sundry other clichés of film noir set design.
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and avoid the producer’s visit.
In the room the crew comes and goes
talking of low angles, though.
The hazy cigarette smoke that rubs its back upon the window blinds,
the sickly sweet smoke that rubs its muzzle on the windowpanes
licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
lingered upon the pools that stand in drains.
Now has everyone curled once about the house, asleep and/or stoned.
I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear heavy trench coats, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the femmes fatales singing, each to each.
I do not think that Jean Simmons or Jane Greer will sing to me.
I have seen Jane Russell riding seaward on the waves
combing the white hair of the waves blown back
when the wind blows the water white and black
because RKO can’t afford Technicolor.
We have lingered in the bottle and the trailer
by these hot girls and older dames, drunk again,
till a director’s voice wakes us, and we drown.
(apologies to T.S. Eliot and his fans, but I had to do this)

5starcinema:

The Love Song of I, Robert Mitchum

Let us go then, you and I,

When the Klieg lamps are spread out against the sky

and I’m as drunk as a patient etherised upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

the muttering retreats

of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

and sundry other clichés of film noir set design.

Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and avoid the producer’s visit.

In the room the crew comes and goes

talking of low angles, though.

The hazy cigarette smoke that rubs its back upon the window blinds,

the sickly sweet smoke that rubs its muzzle on the windowpanes

licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

lingered upon the pools that stand in drains.

Now has everyone curled once about the house, asleep and/or stoned.

I grow old … I grow old …

I shall wear heavy trench coats, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the femmes fatales singing, each to each.

I do not think that Jean Simmons or Jane Greer will sing to me.

I have seen Jane Russell riding seaward on the waves

combing the white hair of the waves blown back

when the wind blows the water white and black

because RKO can’t afford Technicolor.

We have lingered in the bottle and the trailer

by these hot girls and older dames, drunk again,

till a director’s voice wakes us, and we drown.

(apologies to T.S. Eliot and his fans, but I had to do this)

yourehidingfrommenow:

domdean:

cuntakinte:

I hate playing “never have I ever” because I’m a fucking slut

I hate playing “never have I ever” because I’m a fucking virgin

you will never know which of these two statements reign true for people who reblogs this and that bothers me

Then Jaime went to one knee and kissed him quickly once on each cheek, his lips brushing against the puckered ribbon of scar tissue.

“Thank you, Brother,” Tyrion said. “For my life.”

© STR-WRS