June 2012
1 post
“there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him...”
– Charles Bukowski, Bluebird (via celestially)
May 2012
67 posts
how strange it is to be anything at all: (89) →
atomiclanterns:
When our souls are made,
its list of ingredients should be scrawled across the bars of our rib cage: a pre-ordered outline of the preservatives, sweeteners and colourings we carry in the valve of our heart.
A small description perhaps? “Delicate, easily bruised, much like a…
