I’m not tragic these days, I don’t weep, but I feel alone, bewildered, far from you, far from everything — nothing has any meaning.

— Simone de Beauvoir, from Letters To Sartre (via violentwavesofemotion)

From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them, and that is eternity.

— Edvard Munch, Sustainable Landscape Construction (via the-beauty-in-chaos-quotes)

“I was doing time for armed robbery when I found out that my daughter had been killed. Her and my son-in-law had been doing hallucinogens, and he was choking her because that is supposed to make a better orgasm, but he cut off her air too long and ended up killing her. Instead of calling the police, he sat on her body for three days then dumped it behind a 7-11. I was so angry when they called and told me, I pulled up a footlocker that was bolted to the ground. I’m skinny but I’m strong as hell. My wife couldn’t take it, and she OD’d. They found her in the bathroom with one hundred empty bags of heroin. She’d fallen in the bathtub and hit her head on the soap dish. When they called and told me that, I tried to hang myself with my bedsheets.”

{ longing for autumn }

I am homesick for a place I am not sure even exists.
One where my heart is full and my soul understood.

A specter haunts the world and it is the specter of migration

Generative prints by Andreas N. Fischer