Psssh, that's Tuesdays at my house.
Like taking candy from a….eh, nevermind. I tried, couldn’t get a good joke to materialize.
Now I’m spraying vomit out of my cousin’s car at the car wash.
I just left Masa Sushi but I’m still hungry….so now I’m sitting in a Waffle House. I probably have an eating disorder.
“This Painting is Not Available in Your Country”
The key for you to understand here with the work of James Nizam. In order to get these photographs, in order to create these wonderful light installations, James makes incisions into the structure of a house to manipulate sunlight into light sculptures. That’s right, its the sun …
These are incredible in our book, and the amount of time and engineering involved must be a major task. The series is called Trace Heavens, and Nizam has an exhibition at Gallery Jones in Vancouver at the moment… worth a check for sure. (via booooooom)
Gramps has decided to become a sunflowerist. (Taken with hipstagram)
I want to get lost in a field of sunflowers, not because they’re pretty and shit, but because it’s like getting lost in a cornfield and it’s creepy as hell.
(via theorythought)
CAT ROLL (Taken with hipstagram)
At least Walmart has a sense of humor (Taken with instagram)
The Buried Life
(a bit amended)
I knew the mass of men concealed
Their thoughts for fear that if revealed
They would by other men be met
With blank indifference, or with blame reproved.
I knew they lived and moved
Tricked in disguises, alien to the rest.
I feel a nameless sadness over me roll.
Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,
We know, we know that we can smile.
But often, in the world’s most crowded streets,
But often, in the din of strife,
There rises an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our buried life;
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course.
Alas, is even love too weak
To unlock the heart, and let it speak
The nameless feelings that course through our breast,
But they course on for ever unexpressed.
And long we try in vain to speak and act
Our hidden self. And what we say and do
Is eloquent, is well, but is not true.
And when will we no more be racked
With inward striving and demand?
Of all the thousand nothings of the hour
Or their stupefying power?
The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,
And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know.
A man becomes aware of his life’s flow,
And hears its winding murmur; and he sees
The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze.
-Matthew Arnold
The substance of nightmares.
(via let-it-remain)
