we are restless things

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Ruby, 20, books, mixtapes.
We wear clothes, and speak, and create civilizations, and believe we are more than wolves. But inside us there is a word we cannot pronounce and that is who we are.
—Anthony Marra, from “A Constellation of Vital Phenomena” (via weissewiese)

(Source: larmoyante, via weissewiese)

Stop thinking about art works as objects, and start thinking about them as triggers for experiences. (Roy Ascott’s phrase.) That solves a lot of problems: we don’t have to argue whether photographs are art, or whether performances are art, or whether Carl Andre’s bricks or Andrew Serranos’s piss or Little Richard’s ‘Long Tall Sally’ are art, because we say, ‘Art is something that happens, a process, not a quality, and all sorts of things can make it happen.’ … [W]hat makes a work of art ‘good’ for you is not something that is already ‘inside’ it, but something that happens inside you — so the value of the work lies in the degree to which it can help you have the kind of experience that you call art.
—Brian Eno 

(Source: jessiethatcher, via rugburned)

(Source: grabthekittens, via rugburned)

I desired always to stretch the night and fill it fuller and fuller with dreams.
—Virginia Woolf (via sequences)

(Source: forestgirl, via sequences)

Paolo Roversi

Paolo Roversi

(Source: codien, via leprintemps)

(via theresavoidinmypolaroid)

Shall I project a world?
—Thomas Pynchon, from The Crying of Lot 49
commovente: Kiko Mizuhara

commovente:

Kiko Mizuhara

I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center.
—Margaret Atwood, from “Variation on the Word Sleep” (via commovente)

(via commovente)

violentwavesofemotion: Liegender Frauenakt nach rechts, by Gustav Klimt (1912-1913.)

violentwavesofemotion:

Liegender Frauenakt nach rechts, by Gustav Klimt (1912-1913.)

My darling, the wind falls in like stones
from the whitehearted water and when we touch
we enter touch entirely. No one’s alone.
Men kill for this, or for as much.
—Anne Sexton, from The Truth the Dead Know

(Source: losing-myself-in-books, via glitterdeers)

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