Finally back from Europe. 10 wonderful days, but I’m still glad to be home. Budapest, Vienna, Prague, and Munich will just have to wait for me to come back.

“You see, there are still faint glimmers of the civilization left in this barbaric slaughterhouse that was once known as humanity. Indeed, that’s what we provide in our own modest, humble and significant… Ah, fuck it.”

—Gustave H. - The Grand Budapest Hotel (via 010011010100010101010011)

(via thegrandbudapest-hotel)




I found a ghost town while driving though the midwest. I spent the day wading through dead grass and exploring the vacant homes.  A rusty water tower lay on the outskirts of the town and the yards were littered with old cars.

 New life took over the town.  Birds had built nests in many of the homes and there was a dead lamb in one.  As it grew dark it began to rain.  I picked the house with the cleanest bed and slept inside as I listened to rain drip through holes in the ceiling and patter on the roof.  I woke up early to the sounds of raccoons near me on the stairs.

fallout irl

This is actually really scary once you think about it. There are newspapers and lightbulbs and a painting on the desk in the second picture. There’s a trailer in the fourth, along with numerous cars. There are pots and personal effects in the second to last, and the place is trashed. What made everyone leave in such a hurry that they didn’t have time to grab what was dear to them, or even leave in their cars? Why would they leave them there, and not even consider driving away? What madness inflicted all of the residents to simply leave, without taking anything?

(via punkdraco)

“Before saying her prayers, she always recorded in a diary a few occurrences (‘Summer here. Forever, I hope. Sue over and we rode Babe down to the river. Sue played her flute. Fireflies’) and an occasional outburst (‘I love him, I do’). It was a five-year diary; in the four years of its existence she had never neglected to make an entry, though the splendor of several events (Evanna’s wedding, the birth of her nephew) and the drama of others (her ‘first REAL quarrel with Bobby’ -a page literally tear-stained) had caused her to usurp space allotted to the future. A different tinted ink identified each year: 1956 was green and 1957 a ribbon of red, replaced the following year by bright lavender, and now, in 1959, she had decided upon a dignified blue. But as in every manifestation, she continued to tinker with her handwriting, slanting it to the right or to the left, shaping it roundly or steeply, loosely or stingily -as though she were asking, ‘Is this Nancy? Or that? Or that? Which is me?’ (Once Mrs. Riggs, her English teacher, had returned a theme with a scribbled comment: ‘Good. But why written in three styles of script?’ To which Nancy had replied: ‘Because I’m not grown-up enough to be one person with one kind of signature.’) Still, she had progressed in recent months, and it was in a handwriting of emerging maturity that she wrote, ‘Jolene K. came over and I showed her how to make a cherry pie. Practiced with Roxie. Bobby here and we watched TV. Left at eleven.’”

In Cold Blood

Truman Capote

(via loh4n-life)


Gia Coppola (writer/director) appears to have a very similar filmmaking style to Sofia Coppola.  Based on the book by James Franco, who stars with Emma Roberts … a coming of age story


“I’m trash. I’m literal human trash.”

—King Horik (via sonhoedesrazao)


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