— Jean-Paul Sartre, Existentialism is a Humanism (via verbose-silence)
— Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea (via sisyphean-revolt)
And my dickhead neighbour is home with his shit music. If you can even call it music.
The sad moment when you realize how alone you actually are. No one ever messages you on Facebook first or texts you first or anything. So it gets to the point where you don’t want to put in the effort with people who don’t put in any effort for you, so you end up spending your life at home, never going anywhere.
(Source: toxiccunts, via whatthefawkes)
The kiss of death.
This astonishing sculpture forms part of Barcelona’s Poblenou Cemetery. The Kiss of Death (El Petó de la Mort in Catalan and El beso de la muerte in Spanish) dates back to 1930. A winged skeleton bestows a kiss on the lips of a handsome young man: is it ecstasy on his face or resignation? Little wonder the sculpture elicits strong and varying responses from whoever gazes upon it.
(via breathingheart)
(via whatsupwojo)
— Julian Barnes, Flaubert’s Parrot (via prettybooks)
(via psychologicalmumbojumbo)
— Susan Cain, Quiet (via framesjanco)
(Source: accountedfor, via mad-man-with-a-scarf)
“I have the deepest affection for intellectual conversations. The ability to just sit and talk. About love, about life, about anything, about everything. To sit under the moon with all the time in the world, the full-speed train that is our lives slowing to a crawl. Bound by no obligations, barred by no human limitations. To speak without regret or fear of consequence. To talk for hours and about what’s really important in life.”
(Source: herarbitrarymusings, via admiralzacpower)
— Rumi (via doworkstayclassy)
(Source: dailystendhalnitesaudade, via admiralzacpower)





