korrastyle:

A woman’s strength isn’t just about how much she can handle before she breaks. It’s also about how much she must handle after she’s broken.

andythelemon:

It’s been a while since since he last showed up in my art tag, so here’s Aang in traditional monk robes hehe ^^
I’ll colour this up later once i get my trades out the way. 
On Etsy

Edit: Coloured

dancybutt:

"what state do you live in?"

constant anxiety

confectionerybliss:

Blackberry Pie Frozen Yogurt | Amanda K By The Bay

cleopatraroyala:

red lotus forever by freestarisis

"The start of a new era.”

bevsi:

really loving book 3!!

fuzzleyan:

I love video games. I love video games a lot.

I am terrible at video games.

bevsi:

ming hua sketches because im in love

sealfie:

do you ever read the last sentence of a good book and the last words hall in you like a never ending echo and your life stops for a second where you can’t help to stare at the last page before you finally close the book and let all the emotions fade away

mtvstyle:

want this moment burned on my eyelids

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss–we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:
I am living. I remember you.

"What the Living Do" by Marie Howe (via alonesomes)

theartofanimation:

KATSUO

theheirsofdurin:

For Evelin

aausten