‘You’re on Earth. There’s no cure for that.’

 Samuel Beckett

(via transaquam)



Go the fuck outside. Rob a bank. Read a book. Find somebody who’ll give you head. Scream your own name into a chasm. Sit in the sun and feel godlike. Buy a weapon. Masturbate. Go swim somewhere illegal. Hang out with animals. Cook a nine-course meal for your friends. Get drunk and cry. Throw up on public property and shout about Tolstoy. Ride a train. Ride a bus. Tell someone off. Smash something important. Climb a tree and read a book. WRITE a book. Be sweet to a baby and let them know all Americans aren’t monsters. Drop out of school. Remember atrocity. Make your own everything. Stay up all night and walk around the city alone. Learn that you can be a patriot for the land while still hating the government (be a patriot for the deserts, the plains, the mountains, the buffalo, for 250 years of good books.) Find the best genius which is the genius that speaks plainly. Surprise everyone. Grow something from a seed. Emulate Joyce or Faulkner. Learn about Real anarchism. Talk to a dog. Go visit Rich and throw your knife into a river. Read some Bart Schaneman. Listen to Damon Moon. Sing. Sleep in. Quit your job. Make a zine. Start a war within yourself. Break a law. Destroy all uncandid thought. Open your heart to the sky. Live.

(via adamgnade)

(via fromtheseatothelandbeyond-deact)

via gnade

Can you keep a secret? I’m trying to organize a prison break. I’m looking for, like, an accomplice. We have to first get out of this bar, then the hotel, then the city, and then the country. Are you in or you out?

Lost in Translation (2003)


Life Aquatic

photo by Mark Friedberg (Production Designer)

(via cussyeah-wesanderson)

Title: A Favor Artist: Okkervil River 20 plays

Okkervil River // A Favor

frankenstein (by paul buckley design)

How is it that everyone but me seems to keep growing?

Craig Thompson, Blankets (via notsotough)

At first I thought I was going to be like my brother, whom I had had to leave by the roadside a year or two round the corner. He had wasted his breath on singing, and his strength on helping others. But I had travelled more wisely, and now it was only the monotony of the highway that oppressed me—dust under foot and brown crackling hedges on either side, ever since I could remember.
And I had already dropped several things—indeed, the road behind was strewn with the things we all had dropped; and the white dust was settling down on them, so that already they looked no better than stones. My muscles were so weary that I could not even bear the weight of those things I still carried. I slid off the milestone into the road, and lay there prostrate, with my face to the great parched hedge, praying that I might give up.

E.M. Forster // The Other Side of the Hedge
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