palindromer-blog

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you prove a woman is her own house dangerous & whole

— Rita Wong, from “passion rampant in small secret rooms,” Monkeypuzzle

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Dead Poets Society (1989) dir. Peter Weir

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*acquires a new hyperfixation* great! this should keep me going for the next 2 months or 24 hours

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god i wish i looked like what fleetwood mac sounds like

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people who leave their phones set to military time are fuckin war criminals how do you look at 16:05 and go wow i can understand that . fucking bootlickers whats next? you gonna go join the army??recruit me?

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tag yourself im chaotic average

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no offense but  where have all the good men gone and where are all the gods? Where’s the streetwise Hercules to fight the rising odds? Isn’t there a white knight upon a fiery steed? Late at night I toss and I turn and I dream of what I need…I need a hero I’m holding out for a hero ‘til the en-

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I’ve been looking out of a window for eighteen years, dreaming about what I might feel like when those lights rise in the sky. What if it’s not everything I dreamed it would be? It will be. And what if it is? What do I do then? Well, that’s the good part I guess. You get to go find a new dream.

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concept playlists

the breeze is biting and brutal as you swiftly move across campus to your greek literature class but all your mind can focus on is the blood beneath your blackened coat and the way your surroundings suddenly sound painstakingly deliberate

from where you lie the shadows her gestures make are distorted yet you can’t help but smile once the familiar sounds of bicycles clattering against the driveway come across your ears

the shimmering light reflects off of their cheeks as you throw your head back with slight laughter at how, frankly embarrassing, both your dancing is but you can’t find it in yourself to care 

you’re stood on the border of town with one hand on your backpack and the other laced with theirs as the two of your stare out at the sunrise, a sunrise that looms over the town you’ve decided to turn your back on

the love of your life whisks you into the arms for a slow dance which, despite the overall cheesiness, makes your cheeks sore with how much you’re smiling as they lead you through the kitchen and out towards the flower garden

you’re a dumb british teenager, the world is unfair, and all you want to do is sit by the pier and smoke until your lips turn numb and the band dies down

it’s new years eve in ‘87 and you’ve escaped the chaos downstairs in place of laying on the roof with them, some stolen cassettes, and a knack for spotting constellations

the italian sun caresses your skin and it burns but the grass is soft and their head is resting upon your shoulder so you don’t mind too much

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your body deserves love

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I met these two ladies in Switzerland. They were hugging and licking each other, like best friends.

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ppl be like "im intellectual bc i dont drink or go to parties" literally all your favourite authors were doing cocaine all the time. except actually probably not bc we know u only read harry potter and jk rowling's drug of choice is transmisogyny

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going into second hand bookstores and seeing the worn out paperback you’ve been trying to find for months and finding an odd bookmark inside the musty pages feels like divine providence

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donna tartt: *writes an entire cautionary book about the hubris of characters throwing a bacchanal and then going crazy, losing their friendships, falling apart and destroying the rest of their lives as a result of this decision*

me, immune to critical analysis: i want to throw a bacchanal

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#careful darcy #your love for lizzy is showing