Special Ration

This has (d)evolved into an electronic diary. Publicly private thoughts.

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  1. darksilenceinsuburbia:

    Rachel Sussman

    The Oldest Living Things in the World

    Via

    whoah

    (via free-parking)

  2. rootsnbluesfestival:

a young Trombone Shorty plays for blues guitar legend, Bo Diddley

    rootsnbluesfestival:

    a young Trombone Shorty plays for blues guitar legend, Bo Diddley

  3. "When I loved myself enough, I began leaving whatever wasn’t healthy. This meant people, jobs, my own beliefs and habits - anything that kept me small. My judgement called it disloyal. Now I see it as self-loving."

     -

    Kim McMillen  (via thatkindofwoman)

    IMPORTANT!

    (via nataliebythesea)

    (Source: yagazieemezi, via suffering-in-the-labyrinth)

  4. Christoph Niemann

    Christoph Niemann

  5. Out, damned spot!! #ladymacbeet #dinnertheater

  6. "

    Could I even tell how it was,
    his hip on mine against the wall, my hands
    shaking, had I ever touched him that
    way in some other life, was his skin
    always so hot to the touch, the shirt
    I shoved my hands under;

    Could I even touch him how he was,
    shaking, my hand against the hot wall
    of his hip, had I been
    his shirt in some other life, was I always
    so hot to the touch like something
    he would shove against;

    Could I tell him to make it even,
    my hip shoved against the wall
    of his hands, shaking, had I always
    been so hot in another life to tell
    how it was, to be the skin
    under his touch;

    Could I even tell his hip from my hand,
    shaking, had he ever
    touched me in some
    other life, was his shirt always a wall
    against my hand, could he
    shove my under

    "

     - Robyn Art, Notes About His Hands, Part 1

    (Source: grammatolatry)

  7. lovelovelove

    lovelovelove

  8. WWOZ song

    my love for WWOZ, immortalized

  9. "

    For women who are tied to the moon, love alone is not enough. We insist each day wrap it’s knuckles through our heart strings and pull. The lows. The joy. The poetry. We dance at the edge of a cliff, you have fallen off. So it goes. You will climb up again.

    You rare girl, once again, you have a body that belongs to no lover, to no father, belongs to no one but you. Wear your sorrow like the lines on your palm. Like a shawl to keep you warm at night. Don’t mourn the love that is lost to you now. It is a book of poems whose meters worked their way into your pulse. Even if it has slipped from your hands, it will stay in your body.

    You loved a man who treated you like absinthe, half poison and half god. He tried to sweeten you, to water you down. So you left. And now you have your heart all to yourself again. A heart like a stone cottage. Heart like a lover’s diary. Hope like an ocean.

    "