"And this is the only immortality you and I may share, my Lolita."
A Vagabond Song


There is something in autumn that is native to my blood—
Touch of manner, hint of mood;
And my heart is like a rhyme,
With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.

The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry
Of bugles going by.
And my lonely spirit thrills
To see frosty asters like smoke upon the hills.

There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir;
We must rise and follow her,
When from every hill of flame
She calls each vagabond by name. 

—Bliss Carmen


it seems like crying as

it turns my birthday is

becoming a habit that is

so very hard to quit

i hate how i always

notice my mother’s sharp

inhale as my father jokes

about divorce

rotten strawberries smell

so sweet

but taste

so foul

this idyllic family

dinner left the

exact same taste

in my fragile mouth

You can keep as quiet as you like, but one of these days somebody is going to find you.
Haruki Murakami (via winterkristall)

(Source: splitterherzen, via floorboardcreak)

And then there are the times when the wolves are silent and the moon is howling.
George Carlin (via kitty-en-classe)

(via quietriver-ragingsea)


The Furnishings



In a room, full of smoke perfume,

the sediment of sentiment sits at

the bottom of a wine-stained glass.

For company, an upset chair,

a worn-out sofa, and the sound of

someone moving around upstairs.


From “The Addict”
"Then I lie on; my altar elevated by the eight chemical kisses."