I’d really like an apology from whoever needs to be sorry. I refuse to play out the role setup for me, and it’s just insulting at this point. It’s tiresome trying everyday to ignore it. Someone needs to decide that this is wrong and re-evaluate the system. Please.
Don’t do it.
Little Dragon - Constant Surprises
Kanye West - Drive Slow (Live At Abbey Road Studios)
A week or so ago, I figured out I had asperger syndrome. An autistic feat in itself, I suppose. It’s a weird feeling. I’ll probably write about it soon on my new blog.
p.s. a chinstrap beard doesn’t make you a terrorist. it makes you racist. just been proven racist by the racist prover.
"Lady Stardust" Editorial for Framed Magazine Special Edition 2013
MUA/Hair: Jen Johnson
Styling: Colin Boettcher
Model: Jesse Stewart with Ford
Assistant: Chris Scott
© Cassie Doumas 2013
George Benson - Em
I’ve been thinking about age a bit lately. I realised that I’m the same age as the tumblr users I used to look up to were when I first joined tumblr, and it’s just really weird to think I’m that same person I was when I was 16. Same url and archive. This generation is literally growing with the internet.
I looked up and found The Big Dipper in the stars last night. I can’t even remember how many childhood cartoons must’ve subconsciously taught me that. Better than any books could. I passed to the left, pointing out constellations to those around me as people played frisbee amidst streetlights at midnight, celebrating Myles’ 20th.
But memories keep coming back
All the nights that we used to laugh
Wanna know how it used to was, how it used to was
today i learnt your dreams die only and if you tell yourself “it’s just a dream”.
Hiatus Kaiyote - Nakamarra
finally got a free time to draw this one
There are sounds that I’ve never heard, but only heard of. Like the sound of the great veil that ripped in two when Jesus died. I wonder whether Caesar’s voice was hoarse and rattling when he said whatever he actually said to Brutus, or whether the blood pooled silent and thickening beneath his back. I wonder what noises my little dog made when he was born, whether it was anything like the “shush” he made when he crumbled in my arms. What did the first cicada that ever existed sound like? Did it cry like it was mourning the sun back then too? When Ravel placed his index finger on B-flat, when Barber gathered his breath like a stack of worn love letters, when Hemingway pulled the fucking trigger, I suppose it was like the clatter that a deck of cards makes when it spills out of hands—loose and un-contained. I pull and I pull and I pull at the drawstrings, at the cursive of one man’s scrawl, in an attempt to see the line that separates day from night, but the universe is empty—three shot glasses collecting only what cannot be.
I tore my curtains in half this morning. Just to hear the end as it was meant to be.