my mom told me to put the dog to bed but didn’t specify which bed 

posted 7 minutes ago with 89,995 notes
via:deductivescience source:basementdemo



(Source: sextective)

posted 10 minutes ago with 1,880 notes
via:deductivescience source:sextective


Because of you, in gardens of blossoming
Flowers I ache from the perfumes of spring.
I have forgotten your face, I no longer
Remember your hands; how did your lips
Feel on mine?

Because of you, I love the white statues
Drowsing in the parks, the white statues that
Have neither voice nor sight.

I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice;
I have forgotten your eyes.

Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to
My vague memory of you. I live with pain
That is like a wound; if you touch me, you will
Make to me an irreperable harm.

Your caresses enfold me, like climbing
Vines on melancholy walls.

I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to
Glimpse you in every window.

Because of you, the heady perfumes of
Summer pain me; because of you, I again
Seek out the signs that precipitate desires:
Shooting stars, falling objects.

—Pablo Neruda (via observando)
posted 11 minutes ago with 207 notes
via:observando source:observando
posted 29 minutes ago with 2,941 notes
via:drinkgambleandbang source:thiplace

(Source: dicksandudes)

posted 30 minutes ago with 19,216 notes
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(Source: trippedonreality)

posted 37 minutes ago with 19,461 notes
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Well, there is one church I’m thinking of painting when the weather is right.

(Source: meliapond)

posted 47 minutes ago with 5,259 notes
via:drinkgambleandbang source:meliapond

The color photography of Elliott Erwitt  c. 1950s-1970s

(Source: vintagegal)

posted 47 minutes ago with 2,079 notes
via:carmem source:vintagegal

Life returns.

Life prevails.

(Source: claraeleven)

posted 48 minutes ago with 431 notes
via:gallifreyfalls source:claraeleven

The Little Boy and the Old Man


Said the little boy, “Sometimes I drop my spoon.”
Said the old man, “I do that too.”
The little boy whispered, “I wet my pants.”
I do that too,” laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, “I often cry.”
The old man nodded, “So do I.”
But worst of all,” said the boy, “it seems
Grown-ups don’t pay attention to me.”
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
I know what you mean,” said the little old man.”

― Shel Silverstein

posted 50 minutes ago with 646 notes
via:observando source:observando