My heart hurts and I don’t even know why.

Your green eyes and Pepsi Max kisses

Are what makes me miss you most

"And perhaps you might pretend, afterwards, that it was only a trick and that you just said it to make them stop and didn’t really mean it. But that isn’t true. At the time when it happens you do mean it. You think there’s no other way of saving yourself and you’re quite ready to save yourself that way. You want it to happen to the other person. You don’t give a damn what they suffer. All you care about is yourself"

George Orwell (via abbandonata-joe)

The weakness of the human mind will forever cause betrayal.

I should not use the internet while intoxicated

He hasn’t come back maybe ge deserted me. I’m craving his kisses. I just want us to be alone so we can kiss and kiss ubtill we can’t kiss anymore

"We’re all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn’t. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing."

Charles Bukowski (via lifescaresmetodeath)

(Source: theevildead-)

look at this perfect human. just look at her

yep.

ive officially screwed this up.

[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

somewhat-damaged:

La Dispute - Sunday Morning, at a Funeral

Sunday Morning still
laid innocent in sheets,
barely half asleep.
Sunday Morning I was dreaming I was turning from a busy street
into a parking lot.

Sunday Morning broke
and dragged me out of bed,
slightly less asleep.
Sunday Morning I was warming all the cold parts of my head
in cups and coffee pots.

In the Winter I wonder
what it’s like to be anywhere else,
to be anywhere but here.
If I leave and don’t return I hope the factories get full
of people making furniture, with
the river running clear.

Sunday Morning fell
apart and back to sleep,
where I was running late,
where I looked out of place.
Sunday Morning pace of steady, nervous feet
headed for the church doors.

Sunday Morning dressed
in suits and shades of black.
Sunday Morning soft in Sunday best.
Sunday someone’s never coming back here
to this place anymore.

In the Winter I wonder
what it’s like to be anywhere else,
to be anywhere but here.
If I leave and don’t return I hope the factories get full
of people making furniture, with
the river running clear.

Sunday Morning stared
at rows of crowded pews.
Half or all asleep,
looking for a seat.
Sunday Morning waiting for a call from you
but didn’t hear my phone ring.

Sunday Morning had
to sit and watch you bawl.
Sunday Morning left the ringer off.
Sunday Morning missed it when you called and
couldn’t do a thing
but watch.

In the Winter I wonder what it’s like to be where you are.
In the Winter I wonder what it’d be like if you were still here.
Would the factories fill?
Would the river run clear?
Would the river run?

Sunday Morning dreamt
about a moment passed,
about a time I failed.
Sunday Morning I was staring at a clock, trying to push it back.
Sunday Morning wished to be a kid.

Sunday Morning shook
me all the way awake.
Stirred me from the dream.
Sunday Morning I was thinking of a phone call I should make
but never did.
I never did.

(Source: fuckyeahthewave)