(Source: emma-stone-daily)



(Source: askforbroadershoulders)



(Source: pure-madison)



And that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn’t know who I was- I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I’d never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn’t know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn’t scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost. I was half-way across America, at the dividing line between the East of my youth and the West of my future, and maybe that’s why it happened right there and then, that strange red afternoon.
Jack kerouac, On the road.  (via theglasschild)

(Source: moonshadowandme)



(Source: makemestfu)




(Source: saardothien)



0rient-express:

The Smoke that Thunders (by Karsten Wrobel).

0rient-express:

The Smoke that Thunders (by Karsten Wrobel).



photo-sporadic:

The Wonder Years- Came Out Swinging

photo-sporadic:

The Wonder Years- Came Out Swinging

(Source: dfndskrmz)



(Source: greenswsptvdayy)



I once dated a writer and

Writers are forgetful,

but they remember everything.
They forget appointments and anniversaries,
but remember what you wore,
how you smelled,
on your first date…
They remember every story you’ve ever told them -
like ever,
but forget what you’ve just said.
They don’t remember to water the plants
or take out the trash,
but they don’t forget how
to make you laugh.

Writers are forgetful
because
they’re busy
remembering
the important things.

(Source: ofheightsandhollows)



(Source: girlracer)







Finally got my hands back on the Paramore B-sides

Takes be back to my freshman year of college.  I feel old.



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