lauren.20.uhm




chiaradinotte:

Prague, Czech Republic

chiaradinotte:

Prague, Czech Republic

(via harryjamspotter)



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benjoyment:

48 Shades of Lightning 
Taken from last night’s thunderstorm.
(color hues are unretouched)

(via asriels)



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fairy-wren:

(via 500px / Backcombed by 82Matt .)
*Livingstone’s Turaco

fairy-wren:

(via 500px / Backcombed by 82Matt .)

*Livingstone’s Turaco

(via koryos)



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herolne:

herolne:

(via backshelfpoet)



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wickedclothes:

Galaxy / Nebula Rings

These antique bronze rings are fully adjustable. Each ring features an image of a nebula: Carina, Rosette, Tarantula, and Omega. Sold on Etsy.

(via minevras)



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(via aeromatic)


posted 1 month ago / 56,458 notes (originally from silly-luv)
#cry #italysad

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stopdropandvogue:

Amanda Wellsh in “Wayfinder" for Vogue Australia July 2014 photographed by Will Davidson

stopdropandvogue:

Amanda Wellsh in “Wayfinder" for Vogue Australia July 2014 photographed by Will Davidson

(via arosary)


posted 1 month ago / 985 notes (originally from stopdropandvogue)
#goals

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The Winter Palace, Saint Petersburg, Russia. {x}

(Source: historyofromanovs, via thejumblies)


posted 1 month ago / 27,822 notes (originally from historyofromanovs)
#what if cry #russia

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"

Write something true. Write something frightening. Write something close to the bone. You are on this planet to tell the story of what you saw here. What you heard. What you felt. What you learned. Any effort spent in that pursuit cannot be wasted. Any way that you can tell that story more truly, more vividly, more you-ly, is the right way.

So holler. Tell it loud and tell it bright and tell it slant and tell it bold. Tell it with space whales and silent films or tell it with quiet desperation or tell it with war or tell it with dragons or tell it with tall ships or tell it with divorce in the suburbs or tell it with dancing skeletons and a kraken in the wings.

Tell it fast before you get scared and silence yourself.

"

— Catherynne Valente (from her Nanowrimo Pep-Talk)

(Source: bahnree, via thymoss)


posted 1 month ago / 1,056 notes (originally from bahnree)

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libutron:

marine-science:

アカテンイロウミウシ by redsnow
Nudibranch life

Ardeadoris cruenta (formerly Glossodoris cruenta)

libutron:

marine-science:

アカテンイロウミウシ by redsnow

Nudibranch life

Ardeadoris cruenta (formerly Glossodoris cruenta)

(via koryos)



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quiesquietis:

Ball Room of Peterhof Palace - Korzun

quiesquietis:

Ball Room of Peterhof Palace - Korzun

(via asriels)



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artsyrup:

Silvia Grav

(via asriels)



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"I know a boy who called his girlfriend’s body a “crime scene.” Dad, my body is a crime scene. My body is lint and gasoline and matchstick. My body is a brush fire. It’s ticking, Dad, a slow alarm. I have rain boots. Lots of them. It isn’t raining anymore. The words are coming back, Dad. The way they fit and jump in the mouth. I want ice cream and long letters. I want to read long love letters but I don’t think he loves me. I think I’m used up. I think I’m the grit under his nails, the girl who looks good in pictures. I don’t think he loves me. I think they broke me, Dad. I think I drink too much and it’s because they broke me. I heard about two girls recently, two women crushed like cherries in a boy’s jaw. It opened me, Dad. My body is melted wax, it is ripe and stink and bent. It is a mistake. I walk like an apology. I don’t hate men, Dad, I don’t. I want a washing machine. I want someone else to do the dishes, someone to walk the dog. I have a hornet in my head, Dad. A hornet. She’s an angry bitch — she hurls herself against my skull. She stings. And stings. I know I don’t make sense, Dad. This is the problem. I’m a sick girl, a crazy wishbone. I have razors under my tongue. I’m sorry I cut you, Dad, I’m so—so sorry. I gave you a card for Father’s Day once, it said you were my hero. You are. Your laugh is a thunderclap, you love like surgery. I think they broke me, Dad. I can’t erase their faces. I want to swim, Dad. Remember when I used to hopscotch? I used to make you laugh. My feet are hot. The bottoms of my feet are scorched sand, August asphalt. My body is a slug, a mob of sticky wet rot. No one touches me anymore because I’m rot. Because my body is a spill no one wants to clean up. They cracked me open, Dad, I know you don’t want to hear about it. You don’t want to hear how they scissored me, how they gnawed me like raw meat. No one wants to hear how they made me drink lemon juice, how they kicked the dog, how they upturned the furniture, no one wants to hear how my skin turned to a dark thick of purple and black and lead. I watch the homeless a lot, Dad. I watched a man with a cup of coins and chips of skin carved out of his face. He had freckles. He needs medicine, Dad. He needs to stop the hornet. My body is a hive. I am red ants and jellyfish. A yellow sickness. My body is a used condom in an alley in Jersey City. I don’t think he loves me, Dad. My body is a fetus in biohazard tank. A Polaroid pinned to a corkboard in Brooklyn. I think I’m hurt, Dad. I think I was the tough girl for too long. My body is a wafer, a thin, soft melt on a choir boy’s tongue."

— Jeanann Verlee, “Communion”

posted 1 month ago / 616 notes (originally from pigmenting)
#idk why i'm crying #poetry #words

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(Source: everythingturkic, via perforating)



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