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kidouyuuto:

how did they learn to translate languages into other languages how did they know which words meant what HOW DID TH

(via de-caf)

blackpicture:

Ruth Orkin
American Girl in Italy. Florence (1951)
She’s the kind of girl a guy meets when he’s too young, and he fucks up because there’s too much living to do. But later he realizes she’s perfect.
Californication (via clublillies)

(Source: seventh-story-nobody, via ahxela)

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euo:

“You don’t love me anymore?”
Blue is the Warmest Color (2013) dir. Abdellatif Kechiche
impetuousss:

that’s so me rn
Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood.

George Orwell, 1984 (via tat-art)

This is the most accurate thing I’ve read on a while

(via praesentias)

(Source: stxxz, via praesentias)

I, too, remember that feeling. You are caught between all that was and all that must be. You feel lost.
Haruki Murakami, Hard-Boiled Wonderland And The End Of The World  (via exoticwild)

(Source: thecaffeinated, via praesentias)


Marlon Brando in “A Streetcar Named Desire” 1951
acehotel:

Running through The Louvre, from Bernardo Bertolucci’s The Dreamers. 
Today the filmmaker turns 74. And to this day The Louvre forbids running.

alehkai:

OH MY GOD  it’s better than the other version

(Source: arcticsmonkeygifs, via de-caf)

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the sound I heard when I was 9 and my father slammed the front door so hard behind him I swear to god it shook the whole house. For the next 3 years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess or cracked ribs and depression pills.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s all the blood in the sink. It’s the night that I spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay, after the boy she loved, told her he didn’t love her anymore. It’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. So much blood.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. When she came back was smiling. But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.


It’s not that I don’t love you.   (via audrotas)

(Source: extrasad, via audrotas)

mattys1975:

// T H E 1 9 7 5 - P O L A R O I D S //
(photo credits to the amazingly talented awasteofcolor, via thepolaroidproject)
absentmind-s:

love the busyness of London