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Beautiful Humans

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Mature Content

                                                                   

Mature Content

Mature Content

                                                               

Mature Content

Beautiful Nature

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Beautiful Literature

                                                                ..."Someday that's where we'll meet, at empty four-way intersections or on half-deserted streets, half drunk and twirling about ourselves to the sounds of sleepy violin sonatas. I'll kiss the taste of your cigarettes and promise never to waste my fervour on the mundane. We'll meet in Bedlam and Squalor, in churches adorned with the legend 'Ichabod,' scrawled above the double doors. We'll flee, laughing, from the suede-denim stormtroopers and call ourselves the Seeds of Moloch, the children who never chose and never quite made their way to the Inferno. For all our lust and hedonism, our burning tributes to the outlaw Pan, the underlying benevolence of knowing always leaves us smug and unsurprised among the philosophers.

Mature Content

                                                                GypsyPerhaps she'll drop out of college, use all her bank account money and take a train to New York. Or maybe Seattle, for she likes all the cafes, the art, the vintage. Perhaps she'll return to California and live with friends and tell her parents that she's still at university.
Yeah, that could work. That's one way to disappear.
Maybe she'll meet a rich, married man that will take care of her as long as she's good with her tongue and her curves. He could take her to San Francisco where being strange is the norm, and she could find home in old houses smashed together for equity's sake.
She'll grow fond of small towns with simple heroes and buildings no higher than the sunrise. She'll meet crazy people, kind people, frightened, sad, relaxed people in American hostels and become close to them merely because they share the same dissonance, the same search for catharsis.
The point will be to get lost, to disappear, to find human beings just as lost as her, nomadic shadows that are there only

The TimesOnly on days like today do I feel that those days at the beach were worth writing about,that those nights spent sneaking in and out of windows were something I should have taken pictures of. And it is days like today that I most miss the ease of it all. Most miss the invincibility I used to have, and how I could make a flower with a cigarette and carve your name into the back of my hand with a blue sharpie.
I think often of the Easter we lost ourselves in a forest of green, but found ourselves with two empty bottles and barefoot, and had to call my brother to pick us up at the corner of Pine Lake, and how we laughed as we pieced together the night and he rolled his eyes as we pulled into the Arby's parking lot and he told us we had to walk from there.   
I miss the times we spent running from shop to shop and saying how "Next time we'll buy the dress. We'll get it next time. It's not going anywhere without us," and then stopped for a cup of coffee: yours black, mine more                                                               

:thumb143015229:                                                                no one really knowsThey gave him a single sheet of paper, one pencil. "Say your goodbyes," they said, "You'll be gone by tomorrow."  He lay, curled on his hard thin mattress, facing the cement wall, and ignored them. Ignored the paper, ignored the warning.
It was nearly midnight when he finally stood. The moon had risen outside, gleaming through the single window, silhouetting the bars.
He sat up and looked at the paper that had remained untouched on the floor. Say your goodbyes, he thought, and picked up the pencil.
It was an hour before he finally finished. The paper was covered - frantic scribbling filled every inch: dreams, confessions, hopes - all written out at last.
With an air of finality, he laid down the pencil. He stared at the paper, tears blurring the words. Then without a sound, he picked up the paper and began to fold, just like he'd been taught, years and years ago.
Minutes passed and still he bent over the page, his fingers struggling to mimic the creases nearly forgotte   


Beautiful Art

                                                               

Mature Content

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