I Lost Something In The Hills

“You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me.”

— C.S. Lewis

hold on a fucking second. delaware is a state?? i thought it was a river? or is the river more important than the state? why don't i know this? (i should mention i don't like in america, i'm just confused)

there is delaware (state) and delaware (river) 

both are equally strange

the state is a tiny little cryptid thing

the rive is a monster that spans new york, pennsylvania, new jersey and delaware. also washington crossed it once and that was like kinda a big deal i guess. like crossing the rubicon in rome.

the state tries to me more important with its “im the first state!!!” bs (seriously its even on the fucking license plates) but we all know. its the river.

miss when u were a kid and u could just walk up to someone and be like. let's be friends and they would be like ok

I think that the Hamilton musical is objectively the funniest thing that could happen to that man's memory. Imagine dying of a gunshot wound infection in 1804 and learning from the afterlife that tweenage girls in 2017 are drawing thousands upon thousands of images of you making out with your fellow congressmen because someone wrote a 2-hour rap opera about you. I like to imagine that Hamilton found a monkey's paw and wished to leave a legacy, and this is what it did to him.

i lied. i don’t actually like sex. put your clothes back on, i'm going to explain to you how patroclus made achilles mortal—human. achilles might have died a heartbroken hero but he lived a loved man. and it was all because of patroclus. he was loved because of patroclus, he was more immortal than his demigod blood could ever make him because of patroclus. to be loved incandescently, to be loved back with wide eyes and an open heart is more priceless than a promise from the gods.

tag urself i’m lord B Y E ron

"What is stronger than the human heart Which shatters over and over and still lives."

Jean-Paul Sartre, from No Exit: And Three Other Plays; “No Exit”

Text ID: If I've got to suffer, it may as well be at your hands, your pretty hands.

“When Van Gogh was a young man in his early twenties, he was in London studying to be a clergyman. He had no thought of being an artist at all. he sat in his cheap little room writing a letter to his younger brother in Holland, whom he loved very much. He looked out his window at a watery twilight, a thin lamppost, a star, and he said in his letter something like this: “it is so beautiful I must show you how it looks.” And then on his cheap ruled note paper, he made the most beautiful, tender, little drawing of it. When I read this letter of Van Gogh’s it comforted me very much and seemed to throw a clear light on the whole road of Art. Before, I thought that to produce a work of painting or literature, you scowled and thought long and ponderously and weighed everything solemnly and learned everything that all artists had ever done aforetime, and what their influences and schools were, and you were extremely careful about *design* and *balance* and getting *interesting planes* into your painting, and avoided, with the most astringent severity, showing the faintest *academical* tendency, and were strictly modern. And so on and so on. But the moment I read Van Gogh’s letter I knew what art was, and the creative impulse. It is a feeling of love and enthusiasm for something, and in a direct, simple, passionate and true way, you try to show this beauty in things to others, by drawing it. And Van Gogh’s little drawing on the cheap note paper was a work of art because he loved the sky and the frail lamppost against it so seriously that he made the drawing with the most exquisite conscientiousness and care.”

— Brenda Ueland, from “If You Want to Write: A Book about Art, Independence and Spirit”