tucec9:

William H. Barribal. The Grand Finale, 1919.

tucec9:

William H. Barribal. The Grand Finale, 1919.

weepling:

Mark Rothko, Untitled, 1949

weepling:

Mark RothkoUntitled, 1949

lesthetiquedelinventaire:

STILL LIFE by Mark Peckmezian for Holiday N°373 

lesthetiquedelinventaire:

STILL LIFE by Mark Peckmezian for Holiday N°373 

gallowhill:

Mariko Mori and the Wave UFO at the Venice Biennale, 2005

gallowhill:

Mariko Mori and the Wave UFO at the Venice Biennale, 2005

jupitrie:

awkward-fallen-angel:

rustboro-city:

hailhydrangeas:

visual-hana:

comment from a person on youtube whose name i don’t remember.

this is how you make “gay jokes” folks

having two parents of any gender would suck because when u need one of them you’d be like “mom” and the wrong one will reply and you have to go “not you the OTHER one” and thats why if i marry a girl and we have kids she can be mom and i will be optimus prime

optimus prime

Optimum prime

jupitrie:

awkward-fallen-angel:

rustboro-city:

hailhydrangeas:

visual-hana:

comment from a person on youtube whose name i don’t remember.

this is how you make “gay jokes” folks

having two parents of any gender would suck because when u need one of them you’d be like “mom” and the wrong one will reply and you have to go “not you the OTHER one” and thats why if i marry a girl and we have kids she can be mom and i will be optimus prime

optimus prime

Optimum prime

nock-nock-nock:

妄想工作所

  • きんめちゃん
  • ほっケース
  • アジなケース
  • サンマさん

maternityblue:

peregrinage:

Perfume × Kyary (Music Station 140711)

nocchi though

me and nocchi know whats up

saydox:

Ang Lee is a good cook and was a full-time house-husband for six years.

Sometimes as I am falling asleep in a dark, quiet room I have for a moment a great and treasurable illusion of the past. The wall of a tent leans up over my face, not visible but audible, a slanting plane of faint sound: the susurrus of blown snow. Nothing can be seen. The light-emission of the Chabe stove is cut off, and it exists only as a sphere of heat, a heart of warmth. The faint dampness and confining cling of my sleeping-bag; the sound of the snow, barely audible, Estraven’s breathing as he sleeps; darkness. Nothing else. We are inside, the two of us, in shelter, at rest, at the center of all things. Outside, as always, lies the great darkness, the cold, death’s solitude.

In such fortunate moments as I fall asleep I know beyond doubt what the real center of my own life is, that time that is past and lost and yet is permanent, the enduring moment, the heart of warmth.

I am not trying to say that I was happy, during those weeks of hauling a sledge across an ice-sheet in the dead of winter. I was hungry, overstrained, and often anxious, and it all got worse the longer it went on. I certainly wasn’t happy. Happiness has to do with reason, and only reason earns it. What I was given was the thing you can’t earn, and can’t keep, and often don’t even recognize at the time; I mean joy.

The Left Hand of Darkness, Ursula K. Le Guin. (via nevertravelled)

Archive Yohji Yamamoto AW97 

Archive Yohji Yamamoto AW97 

katamaribear:

This Ping Pong cosplayers were so good!! Q Q they are poiein@twitter and her sister!

katamaribear:

This Ping Pong cosplayers were so good!! Q Q they are poiein@twitter and her sister!