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crastinating: “My God, my God, whose performance am I watching? How many people am I? Who am I? What is this space between myself and myself?” — Fernando Pessoa, from The Book of Disquiet (via luthienne)

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clingnebula

clingnebula

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Thais • 19 • Brazil

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clingnebula

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from humble beginnings

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Bears Have Feelings Too...

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Reblogging Stuff I like

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original: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/clingnebula/189057309189

report

weltenwellen: Jeanette Winterson, Lighthousekeeping

weltenwellen: Jeanette Winterson, Lighthousekeeping

ronaldcmerchant: the BRAIN (1962)

ronaldcmerchant: the BRAIN (1962)

violentwavesofemotion: “My suffocating soul, unable any longer to fit within its cage of clay,” — Nikos Kazantzakis, tr. by P. A. Bien, from “Report To Greco,” publ. c. 1961

violentwavesofemotion: “My suffocating soul, unable any longer to fit within its cage of clay,” — Nikos Kazantzakis, tr. by P. A. Bien, from “Report To Greco,” publ. c. 1961

365filmsbyauroranocte: A Streetcar Named Desire (Elia Kazan, 1951)

365filmsbyauroranocte: A Streetcar Named Desire (Elia Kazan, 1951)

thursdaysatthecafe: “Worry is a way to pretend that you have knowledge or control over what you don't―and it surprises me, even in myself, how much we prefer ugly scenarios to the pure unknown.” — Rebecca Solnit, A Field Guide to Getting Lost

thursdaysatthecafe: “Worry is a way to pretend that you have knowledge or control over what you don't―and it surprises me, even in myself, how much we prefer ugly scenarios to the pure unknown.” — Rebecca Solnit, A Field Guide to Getting Lost

heavensickness:Oh, don’t try and take his suffering away from him; he’s be lost without it.Look Back In Anger, John Osborne

heavensickness:Oh, don’t try and take his suffering away from him; he’s be lost without it.Look Back In Anger, John Osborne

bandtshirt: Comme des Garçons F/W 1988 campaign

bandtshirt: Comme des Garçons F/W 1988 campaign

heavensickness:Look Back In Anger, John Osborne

heavensickness:Look Back In Anger, John Osborne

writingsforwinter: “Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.” — Kait Rokowski

writingsforwinter: “Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.” — Kait Rokowski

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