Oh, yeah. Totally. Totally!
Covers for Batman: Gotham Knights #56, #60, #58 and #57.
Art by Jae Lee.
(via anglersoul)
Source: arkhane
Holi on LSD. Amen.
Holi by Variable
We’re calling it now — slowing things down is the new speeding things up. Holi, a.k.a. the Festival of Colors celebrated by Hindus each spring, provides a gorgeous backdrop for this incredible study of the chromatic spectrum. Trust us, you’re gonna want to experience this festival in full screen.
(via tinywrld)
Source: vimeo.com
A kind of idealism.
André Kertész, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s Desk at Bernard Lamotte’s Home, c. 1960
Source: proustitute
If I could choose I would rather be happy than write.
Jean Rhys
And those who were seen
dancing
were thought to be insane
by those
who could not hear
the music.
Friedrich Nietzsche (via curiositycounts)
Source: curiositycounts
Scenes from an un-achieved afternoon
My heart is heavy;
with white echoes
of sands
from the beaches still in wait.
And the ocean car,
blue,
from the 1950’s,
top down,
singing Spanish rhymes.
In tune,
out of tune,
totally free.
And the air, warm,
hanging like an unawakened dream,
the breath of stale rum,
perspiring,
defeated in the afternoon sun.
The shirt is white,
we call it a kurta,
stuck,
sticky stuck,
against the bronze
and the salty.
The shades are crooked,
tinted;
try as I may,
angles remain incorrect,
bruising the nose.
I connect the dots,
digit-sized
on my watch,
longing;
the time has come;
gone;
not yet arrived;
today I feel like a poem
that wasn’t meant to be written.
This, this,
this right here,
should not have been written.
with white echoes
of sands
from the beaches still in wait.
And the ocean car,
blue,
from the 1950’s,
top down,
singing Spanish rhymes.
In tune,
out of tune,
totally free.
And the air, warm,
hanging like an unawakened dream,
the breath of stale rum,
perspiring,
defeated in the afternoon sun.
The shirt is white,
we call it a kurta,
stuck,
sticky stuck,
against the bronze
and the salty.
The shades are crooked,
tinted;
try as I may,
angles remain incorrect,
bruising the nose.
I connect the dots,
digit-sized
on my watch,
longing;
the time has come;
gone;
not yet arrived;
today I feel like a poem
that wasn’t meant to be written.
This, this,
this right here,
should not have been written.
Being in love is so much better than not being in love.
Feel like some drugs, yeah.
Love myself better than you, know it is wrong, what should I do?
Kurt Cobain
Melancholy has not been given its due.
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