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da name is connie.
.youngadult.
.California.
.love sleeping.
.love food.
.love art.
.love music.

tuesday-syndrome:

sky ferreira ‘night time, my time’ vinyl // limited to 800 copies, record store day 2014


People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in the ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.

— Diane Setterfield, The Thirteenth Tale  (via rampias)

But the 8-hour workday is too profitable for big business, not because of the amount of work people get done in eight hours (the average office worker gets less than three hours of actual work done in 8 hours) but because it makes for such a purchase-happy public. Keeping free time scarce means people pay a lot more for convenience, gratification, and any other relief they can buy. It keeps them watching television, and its commercials. It keeps them unambitious outside of work.

We’ve been led into a culture that has been engineered to leave us tired, hungry for indulgence, willing to pay a lot for convenience and entertainment, and most importantly, vaguely dissatisfied with our lives so that we continue wanting things we don’t have. We buy so much because it always seems like something is still missing.

Your Lifestyle Has Already Been Designed (via beccap)

I wish I had a pdf of “Free Time” by Adorno because if I did I would insert it here

(via leafcathedral)

The more I study history the more I realize how little mankind has changed. There are no new scripts, just different actors

— The Sunflower by Richard Paul Evans (via rampias)

There are some that only employ words for the purpose of disguising their thoughts.

— Voltaire  (via rampias)

She was a genius of sadness, immersing herself in it, separating its numerous strands, appreciating its subtle nuances. She was a prism through which sadness could be divided into its infinite spectrum.

— Jonathan Safran Foer  (via rampias)

To die would mean nothing else than to surrender a nothing to the nothing, but that would be impossible to conceive, for how could a person, even only as a nothing, consciously surrender himself to the nothing, and not merely to an empty nothing but rather to a roaring nothing whose nothingness consists only in its incomprehensibility.

— Franz Kafka  (via rampias)

I’ve been thinking a lot about what people deserve from other people, like, whether they deserve to know if you have feelings for them, or if you’ve been friends for years, whether they deserve to be the one you go to when you need to talk to someone, or whether they deserve to know what your home life is like, or whether they deserve to know how fucked up you really are.

We have this notion that, at some point, people earn access to these parts of us. But at what point? At what point do we feel like we owe them? This kind of thought process has always troubled me because I’m naturally a very private person, and sometimes I don’t feel like I owe anybody anything. If I choose them, I choose them because I want to, not because they deserve to be chosen.

I think at some point we need to stop expecting people to give pieces of themselves. Those precious pieces may be all they have left, they may be the bones holding them together. And you are not entitled to that, not one bit. You only deserve what you’re given.

— You Don’t Deserve Anything | Alex L. (via typewriterdaily)

ttoska:

Sandy Kim


What if I slept a little more and forgot about all this nonsense.

— Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis   (via mercurieux)