the 13th minute of pain

each man kills the things he loves
some with passion, some with gold
some when young, some when old
each man kills the things he loves

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So I went looking at Gordon Ramsay videos and found this and laughed for about 10 minutes.

HAHAHAHAAHAH this is fucking amazing 

(Source: kamoe, via unfollovving)


is it morally okay to pray that your crush’s relationship doesn’t work out

(via hotboyproblems)



November in Rome (by Paris in Four Months)

(Source: toyota, via moistbottom)

"It was the third ‘last time’."

- Six Word Story (via recovering-ballerina)

(Source: oceanflowerbird, via in-the-nicks-of-time)

okay, okay, lets drop the sense of existence and don’t talk about any like this anymore.

Better tell me how in that underground pub with a stroboscope hanging from the ceiling

smells like sambuca and tobacco.

Friday nights there are always full

And the beautiful and the drunk and not us run out for a smoke,

he has boots, she is barefooted, walking on tiptoe

In her hand she holds her sandal with a broken heel

He is laughing so hard he is almost choking with the Adam’s apple in his throat.

To hell with the world and it’s order, this is all weakness and rotting Better tell me about the beautiful and not us coming to South and renting lodgings

And how old women pass on him bowls with fruits for her

And what kind of shameless bastards cab drivers are there.

And how this old mama gets from the rope in their yard her stiffen linen So wooden because of the starch.

How less do they need, my love,

How so, so not much.

Tell me about how the one who reached the truth is alone

And how the tanned on the beach have their smiles in garlic white tone

And about how the first cigarette knocks you out

If you smoke it on an empty gut

Talk to me about things like that!

How the lovers are impregnated with some magical thick and sparkling substance

And how the old folks want to breath their last minutes in peace.

And how the frosty bus window

Can be wiped with a sleeve

Talking about a dead man like he still lives.

How the beautiful and not us kiss each other shyly on the lobes

How they sing along to the radio when they’re jammed in the traffic

How they bury a cat in a shoes box

Like some cold doll in a shred.

And how there in the South even if they ring loud, they aren’t picking up phones

So they don’t have to say, hard breathing “mother , everything is well done”

How they name their sons with all kind of stupid names…

Too wonderful and too pure to be us.

Tell me, my sunshine, how she gets in her shoes in the bed close to him

And reads “Tereza Batista, home from the war”

And rolls up her eyes not to cry

And how people chose to kill themselves slowly so they don’t have to die.

Tell me about how he is wearing his glasses without diopters

to look older

to be liked by the usherette and the porter,

and his fathers secretary

but when he has lunch with his friends and they start to gossip

he takes them off and becomes 17 years old - maximum.

Tell me about how fireworks at the sea explode, crackling

Why that one photo of us is always blurred

How one sms becomes an epigraph for long years of indignity;

how because of the anger our jaws clench so hard like you fraction diamonds in little piles of dust with’em.

Why do we always overact it when we have to seem happy and out of love for long term?

Why all those who are showing us where our place is have their own fingers greasy and spit-wet?

And why everyone discusses with us any subject

Rather than the one we get ?

And why any pain isn’t justified with how accurate we once wrote about it?

Tell me how those who don’t have much to tell love big parties with paparazzi

All this actors


Idle jerks,

Complain about stresses

Solve problems…

Watching your idols becoming human trash

Tell me it right from your heart

Why to the once beautiful us grew up this contemptuous grimace?

Why are we sleepless pieces of vicious meat?

Or better about those ones,

on the beach foreland

How they seat there entangled with each other

Their palms full of sand

– And they decide who’s gonna go wash those hands

And ask for a knife from the fishers

To cut their melon and ananas.

They even smell – is it clove or anise –

Not at all like us…

Far much better than us.

Vera Polozkova, translated from Russian by me

this is my design




are boys real



(Source: koumakyou, via unfollovving)


strapless dress

(Source: deanwinchuster, via littleballofgay)