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Ann Lislegaard, Nothing but Space, 1997
Sep 29, 2014 / 14,991 notes

Ann Lislegaard, Nothing but Space, 1997

(via la-viejolie)

He awoke each morning with the desire to do right, to be a good and meaningful person, to be, as simple as it sounded and as impossible as it actually was, happy. And during the course of each day his heart would descend from his chest into his stomach. By early afternoon he was overcome by the feeling that nothing was right, or nothing was right for him, and by the desire to be alone. By evening he was fulfilled: alone in the magnitude of his grief, alone in his aimless guilt, alone even in his loneliness. I am not sad, he would repeat to himself over and over, I am not sad. As if he might one day convince himself. Or fool himself. Or convince others—the only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad. I am not sad. I am not sad. Because his life had unlimited potential for happiness, insofar as it was an empty white room. He would fall asleep with his heart at the foot of his bed, like some domesticated animal that was no part of him at all. And each morning he would wake with it again in the cupboard of his rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping. And by the mid afternoon he was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else, someone else somewhere else. I am not sad.
Sep 29, 2014 / 636 notes
Sep 29, 2014 / 2 notes
Dilly dallying
Sep 29, 2014

Dilly dallying

Sep 29, 2014 / 1 note
I keep drawing little things like this because my eyes like it
Sep 29, 2014 / 1 note

I keep drawing little things like this because my eyes like it

Sep 29, 2014 / 15,057 notes
Sep 29, 2014 / 58,172 notes

(via la-viejolie)


Marek Wykowski 
Sep 28, 2014 / 312 notes
Sep 28, 2014 / 1,770 notes

(via lucyrevere)