"Cry all you fuckin’ want, your tears don’t mean shit to me. Your tears mean dick to me, just so you know."
— Virginia Woolf
You’re like my brother.
You don’t have a brother.
Death is always on the way, but the fact that you don’t know when it will arrive seems to take away from the finiteness of life. It’s that terrible precision that we hate so much. But because we don’t know, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens a certain number of times, and a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that’s so deeply a part of your being that you can’t even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more. Perhaps not even. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless.
A black volcanic beach near the town of Vik in southern Iceland.
Photo credit: Larry
my hand slipped
"guess we cant have different opinions on tumblr"
nah son. an opinion is like “orange juice is nasty” or “fall out boy is overrated”
"your gender identity is ridiculous and you dont deserve to have it respected" is straight up bullshit and you should be called out on it