I'm not romantic. I am a statistic.

Some things I like. Which may or may not include: Literature stuffs, geek stuffs, hindu stuffs, feminist stuffs, altar stuffs, crude stuffs, too personal stuffs, and possibly some travel stuffs... If you're lucky.
Pras, Ol' Dirty Bastard, Mýa

—Ghetto Supastar (That Is What You Are)

inyourfacedotcom:

Ghetto Supastar (That Is What You Are) Pras, Ol’ Dirty Bastard, Mýa

Good morning, 1998.

(via countingmyfeathers)

sigilmilk:

An artist dressed as the Hindu goddess Kali participates in a procession to celebrate the Ram Navami festival Tuesday, April 8, in Allahabad, India. via CNN

(via lurid-curiosities)

paitey:

thesylverlining:

unexplained-events:

A Tibetan Monk blesses the deer that gather around him and someone snaps a picture. Upon viewing the picture they notice a rainbow had appeared.

pretty sure this is the happiest picture I’ve seen in a long time

I think that man knows what he is doing

paitey:

thesylverlining:

unexplained-events:

A Tibetan Monk blesses the deer that gather around him and someone snaps a picture. Upon viewing the picture they notice a rainbow had appeared.

pretty sure this is the happiest picture I’ve seen in a long time

I think that man knows what he is doing

(via caidenvonputtingfoot)

heathyr:

this is my love letter to azlyrics for not being annoying as fuck like other lyric websites

(via ayrawn)

Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality.

We slowly drove—He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility—

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess—in the Ring
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain—
We passed the Setting Sun—

Or rather—He passed Us—
The Dews drew quivering and chill—
For only Gossamer, my Gown—
My Tippet—only Tulle—

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground—
The Roof was scarcely visible—
The Cornice—in the Ground—

Since then—’tis Centuries—and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity—

—Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

(Source: andantefavori, via caidenvonputtingfoot)