I LIKE TOO MANY THINGS |
... and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion. KEROUAC |
- Link "Let This Darkness Be a Bell Tower" by Rainer Maria Rilke | A Wild Love For the World with Joanna Macy [On Being]
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Notes(Source: oh-whiskers, via kissmeweselfdestruct)
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Notes(Source: ivyarchive, via huffposttv)
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"What is it?”
“It’s Cool Whipped!”
“Surely you mean Cool Whip, right? And it looks like whipped cream.”
“Just eat it!”
“So it’s a dessert?”
“Just eat it!”
“Taste it. I should just TASTE it.”
“Right, whatever! It’s just like real whipped cream, but, um, totally artificial. Just eat it!”
“JUST TASTE IT. The line is, ‘Just taste it.’”
“Well, maybe I don’t like your wife’s stupid line. Get her back here to read her line, if she doesn’t think advertising is stupid." -
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"They have a list of 12 songs that they can choose from. Nothing from the Ryan Cabrera oeuvre, although there are a couple of Wesley Willis songs on there, which surprised me. Some selections from Ethyl Meatplow, a little St. Etienne, Postal Service, and the first Tanya Donnelly solo album round out what promises to be an eclectic…you know I’m lying, right? It’s exactly what you think it is: “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” “Unforgettable,” whatever whatever. You could write this list from your own head and you’d be completely right."
Jacob Clifton (from p. 3 of an old American Idol recap at TWoP - S4, ep 4)
(Source: televisionwithoutpity.com)
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Bon Iver is sitting cross-legged on the floor, his brow furrowed. It seems he and the jigsaw puzzle have come to an impasse. We’d bought it secondhand, and the box had been lost, so we were left to guess what shape the pieces would take. We weren’t even sure they were all there. I suggest he take a break for a bit and clear his head. ‘I can’t,’ he says, ‘I need to make something whole today.’
GOOD GOD THIS TUMBLR IS KILLING MEEEE
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(Source: when-i-rule-the-world)
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Auf welches Instrument sind wir gespannt?
How shall I hold on to my soul, so that
it does not touch yours? How shall I lift
it gently up over you on to other things?
I would so very much like to tuck it away
among long lost objects in the dark,
in some quiet, unknown place, somewhere
which remains motionless when your depths resound.
And yet everything which touches us, you and me,
takes us together like a single bow,
drawing out from two strings but one voice.
On which instrument are we strung?
And which violinist holds us in his hand?
O sweetest of songs.—Rilke
