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i'm so sorry,my friend. we'll see each other again. im not scared of you; i'm terrified of me and who i choose to be.

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Killed 26 years ago by a drunk driver, son is remembered by father. 

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still sexually frusterated, i think it's turning into an illness... i just wanna hold hands and go to a park, sit down, eat fresh bread that i baked.

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sexually frustrated and kinda sleepy.

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the last and most personal draw of the night. i drew this last card, the hermit, asking and wondering with intent of myself - growing and knowing within, longing, questioning. trying to do the right thing while not neglecting myself. turning inward, not upside down. express not repress.

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Every day we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why we get a heart-ache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty. Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. There is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, to discover what is already there.

Henry Miller, Sexus (via purplebuddhaproject)

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St. Paphnutius of Borovsk  by Mikhail Nesterov

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Arch of Septimius Severus. 19th Century

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The Texas Chain Saw Massacre - Tobe Hooper 1974

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Strange Terrains IV

Near Trapper Creek, Alaska

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lovely green

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