Miss Spiritual Tramp of 1948
Alexis Gavrelis.18.Baltimore to New Orleans Well I've always thought it kind of rhymed... If I feel something, I write about it. If I write about it, then I feel it - it`s just that simple.


Read the Printed Word!


Princess Yvonne and Prince Alexander in Germany, 1955.


She is not “my girl.”

She belongs to herself, and to all of the world. And I am blessed, for with all her freedom, she still comes back to me, moment-to-moment, day-by-day, and night-by-night.

How much more blessed can I be?

Avraham Chaim, Thoughts after The Alchemist (via shayeofodile)

(Source: avraham-chai, via neshama-sheli)


rosy alice on We Heart It. http://weheartit.com/entry/15488419/via/thamiresmiranda


Emporio Armani September/February 1990/’91


I need someone who will sit on a rooftop with me at 2 in the morning and will tell me their favorite songs and their family problems and how they think the earth was made

(via turnonyourlovelightt)

"Go to a coffee shop. Sit by the bar with the glass windows and look out. Look at all the people running to catch a train. All the girls with one too many shopping bags. All the couples too in love to care. Then you’ll see it - a bit of yourself in everyone. And somehow, sitting alone in a coffee shop had never felt so good."
note to self (via c0ntemplations)

(via voiceless-thoughts)



"Goodnight and great love to you. We see the same stars."
George Mallory, from a letter to his wife Ruth during the 1921 Everest Reconnaissance Expedition (via creatingaquietmind)

(Source: larmoyante, via ktlyngvrls)


old golden retrievers are one of the purest forces of good on this planet

(via ktlyngvrls)

I think it’s important to note that in another life I could have loved you. I could have traced along the scar in between your forearm and bicep until the ridges were edged in my fingertips. Could have stood forever as we waited for the elevator and you ran your fingers through the back of my hair. There is a certain type of eternity that exists on the beach at night and I’d like to believe that the two of us are still there somehow, whispering between puffs of smoke and the laughter of shadows against the waves. In two days I memorized your pauses and the things you wouldn’t say. I understood that there were certain sentences you weren’t ready to speak aloud, especially not to me, and that the sand was just cool enough after sunset to take the sting away. Bow ties tied crooked after six or seven sips of Jack, we watched as the boys in suits danced and ran out amidst the music and the sea. You asked me to hold your flask and I took a sip that would have made me cringe a year ago, but just then it felt good on my throat and things have changed since eighteen stopped feeling so tall. For every skinned knee, every empty bottle, every moment my lungs caught fire, I was grateful for you. For the idea that there are people that exist in this life that lay beneath the starts with us, but when the sun steals the stars away these people brush the sand off their palms and continue on their way. We only look at them as they go and they look back at us, for a moment, maybe longer, with the promise of another dotted sky.

"How did you fall in love with New Orleans? At once, madly… Looking back, sometimes I think it was predestined."
Andrei Codrescu (via dirtanddecadence)


Street Sign near Baptist Hospital - 1937
Via Nutrias.org

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