1. My bed smells of you.
    My skin smells of you.
    My hair smells of you.
    The air in my room smells of you.
    I can smell our sex.
    My hands smell of your sex.

    My lips pulsate with the remnants of your kiss.
    My skin is hot and cold where you last caressed me with your fingertips and lips.
    Fresh bruises where you bit my flesh and sinewed muscles tenderly.

     

  2. grantharder:

    Photographed for The Walrus, Chris Haddock, producer and sreenwriter (most recently with Boardwalk Empire and most known for his series Da Vinci’s Inquest). He was gracious and charismatic, taking me all around the downtown eastside of Vancouver showing me his favourite past locations for his own productions.

    (via iqfashion)

     


  3. You came back into my life at a safe, discontented and monotonous time. Now it’s all disjointed with flashbacks of all the last moments I have with you: blowing cigarette smoke in my direction with squinted eyes, a cold hand grasping at mine and fitting both, firmly entangled, into my coat pocket, a quick smile on your opium-dream lips, then to go ahead and elongate your divine legs, tip-toeing to bury your cold nose into my neck and nuzzling my beard. Then erasing an entire existence with a quick nicotine laced kiss. You haunt my lucid moments, my waking moments, you haunt the dark behind my blinking eyes.

     


  4. Yah, so there’s a bunch of monies i just spent on rooster teeth merch.

     

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  6. Hemingway and James Joyce were drinking buddies in Paris. Joyce was thin and bespectacled; Hemingway was tall and strapping. When they went out Joyce would get drunk, pick a fight with a bigger guy in the bar and then hide behind Hemingway and yell, “Deal with him, Hemingway. Deal with him.”
    — [x] (via newzerokaneda)

    (via coastalshelf)

     

  7. (Source: parepin, via nnatives)

     


  8. Choked on beer and had a huge suffocating couging fit because i laughed so hard at a Geoff laugh. God dammit.

     

  9. in-starlitnights:

    Jean-Paul Sartre and Jean-Luc Godard in Paris, february 1971.

    (via hidden-war)

     

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