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Wait can you elaborate what you mean about recovery being a myth?

it isn’t real. you just find deeper and further rooms of the torture prison you have different sadomasochistic relationships with. I’m in one of the more beautiful ones right now where my partner is still alive and her flower garden is still going strong.

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#utterly breath taking

Laguna Seca, 2013.

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Mugello, 2019

📷 by WE ARE 93

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Ilya Kaminsky, from "Alfonso, in Snow", Deaf Republic

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Natalie Díaz, from “Wolf OR-7”, Postcolonial Love Poem

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what is your favorite?

i would have to say it’s definitely

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Roland Barthes, A Lover's Discourse: Fragments (trans. Richard Howard) [transcript in ALT]

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the jump perverts does from “your love is sinful and your sex is damned and your pleasure is a stain on god” to “i lost someone that actually matters to me because i have carnal desires for something more evil and disembodied than anything in this world and now i am left alone with addictions to things that can’t love me back” is so.

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How trivial all his bitterness seemed; he thought of this one whose existence had been for centuries unbroken suffering; whose youth with all its needs had been rendered truly eternal; this one whom he had failed to save, or to perfect. How many times over the years had he dreamed of such a reunion, and he had never had the courage for it; and now on this battlefield, in this time of ruin and upheaval, they were at last to meet. “My love,” he whispered. He felt himself chastened suddenly as he had been earlier when he had flown up and up over the snowy wastes past the realm of the indifferent clouds. Never had he spoken words more heartfelt. “My beautiful Amadeo,” he said. And reaching out he felt the touch of Armand’s hand. Supple still this unnatural flesh, supple as if it were human, and cool and so soft. He couldn’t help himself now. He was weeping. He opened his eyes to see the boyish figure standing before him. Oh, such an expression. So accepting, so yielding. Then he opened his arms. Centuries ago in a palazzo in Venice, he had tried to capture in imperishable pigment the quality of this love. What had been its lesson? That in all the world no two souls contain the same secret, the same gift of devotion or abandon; that in a common child, a wounded child, he had found a blending of sadness and simple grace that would forever break his heart? This one had understood him! This one had loved him as no other ever had. Through his tears he saw no recrimination for the grand experiment that had gone wrong. He saw the face that he had painted, now darkened slightly with the thing we naively call wisdom; and he saw the same love he had counted upon so totally in those lost nights. If only there were time, time to seek the quiet of the forest—some warm, secluded place among the soaring redwoods—and there talk together by the hour through long unhurried nights. But the others waited; and so these moments were all the more precious, and all the more sad. He tightened his arms around Armand. He kissed Armand’s lips, and his long loose vagabond hair. He ran his hand covetously over Armand’s shoulders. He looked at the slim white hand he held in his own. Every detail he had sought to preserve forever on canvas; every detail he had certainly preserved in death.

Marius and Armand's reunion, The Queen of the Damned by Anne Rice

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Circus

What if I broke my spine forever? My sister would come into the room to draw her portraits in charcoal, of two bulging eyes in a sea of haze grey. Each portrait is no bigger than an index card, arranged on a piece of rigid stock paper, tessellated and horribly consistent. All those dead eyes staring out at her as she renders them incapable of telling her anything. “I hate you” she would say to me, every time she would finish another. “You’ve ruined it. You’ve completely ruined it.” She would storm out the room, echoing for complete lack of furniture, and I would be left alone with them to watch over me.

I would ask you to pick me up and you would do so carefully, my limp body soft and complete. Can you carry me, lay me on the mattress in the back of the house? Or on the ground, it doesn’t make a difference to me. Sometimes I think you don’t believe I can’t feel anything and most of the time I don’t believe you can imagine what that’s like.

“Crush me” I tell you. I can only blink my eyes and move my mouth. I could probably wiggle my ears if I tried but I never feel up to it. You would gently press down on my breasts and my rib cage.

“Can you feel that?”

I slowly move my head left to right and back again.

I think about outside and what it feels like to be there. The treetops and the june-bugs and the hatred I feel for summertime. Everyone has gone on without me.

“Hit me.”

You look at me like you don’t want to but I know where your wonder hides, in the small places like a boy afraid of his own shadow.

You punch me in my side, my arm, my stomach.

“Can you feel that?”

I smile so big like I’m at the circus.

“Cut me.”

“What?”

“Cut me.”

You look down at me on the mattress. Here I am, unmoving and so horny.

“Please, baby, if I never ask anything of you ever again, just cut me.”

Wonder-boy takes his buck knife and carves a small canyon on my upper thigh. I wouldn’t know if I hadn’t watched him do it.

“Again.”

He looks me in my eyes as he separates another layer of subcutaneous. It is pink and red and yellow and blue and disgusting. I am butter and cottage cheese inside.

He stands there over me, belt unbuckled, denim undone, sweating, afraid, wonder creeping out for a closer look. His eyes are wild, so far from the fog of mine. Yet, we both want the very same thing. He removes his penis from his clothes and his clothes from his body and he slides it, hard as stone, back and forth through the gushing flesh of my upper thigh. I can’t feel a thing but I could cum just from watching. I have my own wonder too. The air in the room is hung from the ceiling unmoving like a puppet sleeping on his gallows. I am so lucky that he loves me, I am I am I am. He fucks my butchered leg like a stray dog and I cum over and over and over again watching him.

We embrace like kin in the hospital waiting room. “I am so lucky that he loves me” I think as he holds me. Despite the bright red picture I’ve painted in the white lobby tonight, they ask of me just five minutes. I don’t mind. If I don’t look, it makes no difference to me.

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BLOODBORNE ⤅ ( 8/? )

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endless list of random motogp things - rosquez + hand-holding after races

cota 2013 | assen 2013 | aragon 2013 | losail 2014 | le mans 2014 | indianapolis 2014 | sepang 2014 | cota 2015 | sachsenring 2015 | indianapolis 2015

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Siobhán Hapaska, Robot, 2001 // Pang Maokun, Destiny 命运; Hand in Hand 牵手, 2019 // Shorra, Death of a Cyborg (after The First Mourning by William-Adolphe Bouguereau), 2015

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kisses and kissing, 2006

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Vogue Italia January 2006: One Month Only by Steven Meisel.