denial-bryan:

Phantogram // Bad Dreams

Bad Dreams
Phantogram
Voices
1,233 plays
Tuesday with 119 notes / reblog
Wednesday with 72,858 notes / reblog

(Source: futurepleasure, via think-feel-rustic)

Wednesday with 341 notes / reblog

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I’ve been quite miserable. You’d call me selfish — but I feel it more and more; I feel the need to be alone with people who understand without having to try. I need that sense of effortlessness right there — I just refuse to hold back these days. I refuse to settle for some lucidity of mind in my own privacy and then no more energy left, no more vitality left to keep me going. It’s all anxiety and restlessness. And — I find it more and more hard to waste my time on people I don’t truly care about for I feel they don’t care enough either. Or they do care, in their own way, but it’s just not meaningful to me whatsoever. Does it all lie in my complete inability to receive? At any rate, I think they surely like the idea — that’s why they obviously keep coming around for tea! But at this point, I can’t have that — and there’s no point, really, for they don’t understand, ever, and in all my misery I am still pretty arrogant and demanding enough to believe that it is my right to wish to be felt rather than be understood but that doesn’t seem to happen either. So, here it is: is it possible? I ask. Is “emotion” possible without “understanding” of some sort?

Virginia Woolf, from Selected Letters (via violentwavesofemotion)

Virginia Woolf, one of the most lovely women to grace this earth.

-— Rest in peace, Mrs. Woolf.

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(via cicarson)

Wednesday with 280,586 notes / reblog

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Wednesday with 14,329 notes / reblog
bookpatrol:

Wolfman’s Books by kylejglenn on Flickr.

bookpatrol:

Wolfman’s Books by kylejglenn on Flickr.

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Wednesday with 1,123 notes / reblog

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We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another, unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made of layers, cells, constellations.
Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 4: 1944-1947 (via cold-winter-days)

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Six Days At The Bottom Of The Ocean
Explosions In The Sky
The Earth Is Not A Cold Dead Place
1,193 plays
Wednesday with 287 notes / reblog
Wednesday with 352,152 notes / reblog

(Source: ianbrooks, via sexpectinq)