we can only blame ourselves, so
come sit with me in the dark.
it’s half-past nowhere.
— Charles Bukowski, from Come On In! (via ontheedgeofdarkness)
Reblogged from Journal of a Nobody
[…] but you can’t really write about anything except YOURSELF. isn’t it true? isn’t it true?
Charles Bukowski, from The People Look Like Flowers At Last  (via whyallcaps)
Reblogged from
Chaos? Chaos is rejecting all you have learned, chaos is being yourself. …
— Emil Cioran, A Short History of Decay (via hyperboreanvoyager)
Reblogged from Journal of a Nobody
A wish : be with me in my praecox
— The Greys
I like people who dream or talk to themselves interminably; I like them, for they are double. They are here and elsewhere.
Reblogged from Distance Nouveau
Everything collapses in pain. All eloquence springs from pain.
Roberto Bolaño, from 2666 (via violentwavesofemotion)
Reblogged from this is why we fight
I love the abstract, delicate, profound, vague, voluptuously wordless sensation of living ecstatically.
— Anaïs Nin, from a letter to Henry Miller (via violentwavesofemotion)
Reblogged from ~Mirage~

I love the dark hours of my being.

My mind deepens into them.

— Rainer Maria Rilke, from The Book Of Hours (via violentwavesofemotion)
Reblogged from a heart apart