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a girl without her daily screen time of eight hours and some spare minutes is like an angel without wings but we're persevering despite it all

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. . . sometimes i don't tell andré about my moods, sorrows, unimportant anxieties; and no doubt he has his little secrets too; but on the whole there is nothing we do not know about one another. i poured out the china tea, piping hot and very strong. we drank it as we looked through our post: the july sun came flooding into the room. how many times had we sat there opposite one another at that little table with piping hot, very strong cups of tea in front of us? and we should do so again tomorrow, and in a year's time, and in ten years' time . . . that moment possessed the sweet gentleness of a memory and the gaiety of a promise. were we thirty, or were we sixty? andré's hair had gone white when he was young: in earlier days that snowy hair, emphasizing the clear freshness of his complexion, looked particularly dashing. it looks dashing still. his skin has hardened and wrinkled—old leather—but the smile on his mouth and in his eyes has kept its brilliance. whatever the photograph album may say to the contrary, the pictures of the young andré conform to his present-day face: my eyes attribute no age to him. a long life filled with laughter, tears, quarrels, embraces, confessions, silences, and sudden impulses of the heart: and yet sometimes it seems that time has not moved by at all. the future still stretches out to infinity.

simone de beauvoir, the woman destroyed.

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Original title page and opening chorus of Bach’s Johannes-Passion, BWV 245 (1749 version).

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via terrybarberonbeauty on instagram

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Shibari 午士Buu Model Yelsu Photo 雨罙_easen

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Masao Yamamoto, Dogs

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her wet hair hung down her back and already her extremities were blue. she didn’t say a word, but when they parted her hands they found the laminated picture of the virgin mary she held against her budding chest. that was in june, fish-fly season, when each year our town is covered by the flotsam of those ephemeral insects. rising in clouds from the algae in the polluted lake, they blacken windows, coat cars and streetlamps, plaster the municipal docks and festoon the rigging of sailboats, always in the same brown ubiquity of flying scum. mrs. scheer, who lives down the street, told us she saw cecilia the day before she attempted suicide. she was standing by the curb, in the antique wedding dress with the shorn hem she always wore, looking at a thunderbird encased in fish flies. “you better get a broom, honey,” mrs. scheer advised. but cecilia fixed her with her spiritualist’s gaze. “they’re dead,” she said. “they only live twenty-four hours. they hatch, they reproduce, and then they croak. they don’t even get to eat.” and with that she stuck her hand into the foamy layer of bugs and cleared her initials . . .

jeffrey eugenides, the virgin suicides. ‎‎ ‎ ‎

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. . . she began another story. she told him that she was born on the road, that her parents were show people, that they traveled all the time, that her father was a magician in a circus, her mother a trapezist. ( had she learned there her skill in balancing in space, in time, avoiding all definitions and crystallizations? had she learned from her father to deal in camouflage, in quick sleight of hand? this story, henry said, came before the one in which she asserted her father had been anonymous. not knowing who she was, he might turn out to be the man she most admired at the time. ) henry said that another time she had told him her father was a don juan, that it was his faithlessness which had affected her childhood, giving her a feeling of impermanency, distrust of man. he reminded her of this when she talked about her "magician" father. this did not trouble her. "that was true, too," said june. "one can be a faithless magician." ( . . . ) he felt a compulsion to follow her, from story to story. from a mobile, evanescent childhood to a kaleidoscopic adolescence, to a tumultuous and smoky womanhood, a figure whom even a passport official would have difficulty in identifying.

anaïs nin, the diary of anaïs nin, volume i: 1931-1934.

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she’s preserved this photo carefully, because it's almost all she has left of him. it’s black and white, taken by one of those boxy, cumbersome flash cameras from before the war, with their accordion-pleat nozzles and their well-made leather cases that looked like muzzles, with straps and intricate buckles. the photo is of the two of them together, her and this man, on a picnic. picnic is written on the back, in pencil — not his name or hers, just picnic. she knows the names, she doesn't need to write them down […] she’s turned half towards him, and smiling, in a way she can’t remember smiling at anyone since. she seems very young in the picture, too young, though she hadn’t considered herself too young at the time. he’s smiling too — the whiteness of his teeth shows up like a scratched match flaring — but he’s holding up his hand, as if to fend her off in play, or else to protect himself from the camera, from the person who must be there, taking the picture; or else to protect himself from those in the future who might be looking at him, who might be looking at him through this square, lighted window of glazed paper. as if to protect himself from her. as if to protect her. in his out-stretched hand there’s the stub end of a cigarette.

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Horror movie fans are so funny because you'll bring up the biggest actor who's in 10,000 iconic roles, and they'll go, "Oh, the guy from Blood Burger 4: Keep Flipping." and that's the only thing on their filmography that they've seen.

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After sex you see me roll over and go to balcony. You think ive gone for smoke due to my melancholic nature but I’ve opened sudoku.com evil level

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leaning her forehead against the cold and shiny window-pane she gazed at the neighbor's yard, at the big world of the hens-that-didn't-know-they-were-going-to-die. and she could smell as if it were right beneath her nose the warm, hard-packed earth, so fragrant and dry, where she just knew, she just knew a worm or two was having a stretch before being eaten by the hen that the people were going to eat. there was a great, still moment, with nothing inside it. she dilated her eyes, waited. nothing came. blank. but suddenly the day was wound up and everything spluttered to life again, the typewriter trotting, her father's cigarette smoking, the silence, the little leaves, the naked chickens, the light, things coming to life again with the urgency of a kettle on the boil. the only thing missing was the tin-dlen of the clock that was ever so pretty. she closed her eyes, pretended to hear it and to the sound of the non-existent and rhythmic music rose up on tiptoes. she did three very light, winged dance steps. then suddenly she looked at everything with distaste as if she had eaten too much of that mixture ( . . . ) and then wondered: what's going to happen now now now? and always in the sliver of time that followed nothing happened if she kept waiting for what was going to happen, you see? she pushed away the difficult thought amusing herself with a movement of her bare foot on the dusty wooden floor. she rubbed her foot and watched her father out of the corner of her eye, waiting for his impatient and irritated glance. but nothing came. nothing. it's hard to suck in people like the vacuum cleaner does.

clarice lispector, near to the wild heart.

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