Glory and Gore
Lorde - Pure Heroine
PLAYED 29,977 TIMES

magicview:

Glory and Gore - Lorde

You could try and take us 
But we’re the gladiators
Everyone a ranger 
But secretly they’re saviours
Glory and gore go hand in hand
That’s why we’re making headlines
You could try and take us
But victory’s contagious

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"And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind."
— Pablo Neruda, from “Poetry” (via mirroir)
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japaneseaesthetics:

This is the crest of the Tokugawa—the ruling shogunal family of the Edo period (1603-1868). It’s on one of the old gates Zōjō-ji temple complex- the Niten gate of Yūshōin, Tokugawa Ietsugu’s mausoleum, in the Shiba area of Minato-ku, Tokyo.  Text and photography by Rekishi no Tabi on Flickr

japaneseaesthetics:

This is the crest of the Tokugawa—the ruling shogunal family of the Edo period (1603-1868). It’s on one of the old gates Zōjō-ji temple complex- the Niten gate of Yūshōin, Tokugawa Ietsugu’s mausoleum, in the Shiba area of Minato-ku, Tokyo.  Text and photography by Rekishi no Tabi on Flickr

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eastwoodwong:

Utena in Balmain Fall 2012 because it’s not enough just having pink hair.

eastwoodwong:

Utena in Balmain Fall 2012 because it’s not enough just having pink hair.

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"Holy places are dark places. It is life and strength, not knowledge and words, that we get in them. Holy wisdom is not clear and thin like water, but thick and dark like blood."
— C.S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces (via wordsnquotes)
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#words  #lovely 


asylum-art:

THE UNSEEN

Lauren Bowker of THE UNSEEN, an ink that changes color with the temperature of the air and the human body …

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mangomamita:


Corsican vendetta knife with floral detail

che la mia ferita sia mortale"may my wound be deadly"

mangomamita:

Corsican vendetta knife with floral detail

che la mia ferita sia mortale
"may my wound be deadly"

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#blades 


Toad Words

jumpingjacktrash:

the-real-seebs:

ursulavernon:

            Frogs fall out of my mouth when I talk. Toads, too.

            It used to be a problem.

            There was an incident when I was young and cross and fed up parental expectations. My sister, who is the Good One, has gold fall from her lips, and since I could not be her, I had to go a different way.

            So I got frogs. It happens.

            “You’ll grow into it,” the fairy godmother said. “Some curses have cloth-of-gold linings.” She considered this, and her finger drifted to her lower lip, the way it did when she was forgetting things. “Mind you, some curses just grind you down and leave you broken. Some blessings do that too, though. Hmm. What was I saying?”

            I spent a lot of time not talking. I got a slate and wrote things down. It was hard at first, but I hated to drop the frogs in the middle of the road. They got hit by cars, or dried out, miles away from their damp little homes.

            Toads were easier. Toads are tough. After awhile, I learned to feel when a word was a toad and not a frog. I could roll the word around on my tongue and get the flavor before I spoke it. Toad words were drier. Desiccated is a toad word. So is crisp and crisis and obligation. So are elegant and matchstick.

            Frog words were a bit more varied. Murky. Purple. Swinging. Jazz.

I practiced in the field behind the house, speaking words over and over, sending small creatures hopping into the evening.  I learned to speak some words as either toads or frogs. It’s all in the delivery.

            Love is a frog word, if spoken earnestly, and a toad word if spoken sarcastically. Frogs are not good at sarcasm.

            Toads are masters of it.

            I learned one day that the amphibians are going extinct all over the world, that some of them are vanishing. You go to ponds that should be full of frogs and find them silent. There are a hundred things responsible—fungus and pesticides and acid rain.

            When I heard this, I cried “What!?” so loudly that an adult African bullfrog fell from my lips and I had to catch it. It weighed as much as a small cat. I took it to the pet store and spun them a lie in writing about my cousin going off to college and leaving the frog behind.

            I brooded about frogs for weeks after that, and then eventually, I decided to do something about it.

            I cannot fix the things that kill them. It would take an army of fairy godmothers, and mine retired long ago. Now she goes on long cruises and spreads her wings out across the deck chairs.

            But I can make more.

            I had to get a field guide at first. It was a long process. Say a word and catch it, check the field marks. Most words turn to bronze frogs if I am not paying attention.

            Poison arrow frogs make my lips go numb. I can only do a few of those a day. I go through a lot of chapstick.  

            It is a holding action I am fighting, nothing more. I go to vernal pools and whisper sonnets that turn into wood frogs. I say the words squeak and squill and spring peepers skitter away into the trees. They begin singing almost the moment they emerge.

            I read long legal documents to a growing audience of Fowler’s toads, who blink their goggling eyes up at me. (I wish I could do salamanders. I would read Clive Barker novels aloud and seed the streams with efts and hellbenders. I would fly to Mexico and read love poems in another language to restore the axolotl. Alas, it’s frogs and toads and nothing more. We make do.)

            The woods behind my house are full of singing. The neighbors either learn to love it or move away.

            My sister—the one who speaks gold and diamonds—funds my travels. She speaks less than I do, but for me and my amphibian friends, she will vomit rubies and sapphires. I am grateful.

            I am practicing reading modernist revolutionary poetry aloud. My accent is atrocious. Still, a day will come when the Panamanian golden frog will tumble from my lips, and I will catch it and hold it, and whatever word I spoke, I’ll say again and again, until I stand at the center of a sea of yellow skins, and make from my curse at last a cloth of gold.

Terri Windling posted recently about the old fairy tale of frogs falling from a girl’s lips, and I started thinking about what I’d do if that happened to me, and…well…

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Otters frolicking underwater.

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I was hoping the sea would give me mermaid hair

seaweed however is perfectly acceptable

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luxhysteria:

Jupiter’s great red spot. A hurricane three times the size of our whole planet that’s been raging for centuries.
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mintykat:

High Lace-up Platform Boots from Hipster Space

use the code ‘tops' for a special discount! 

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