can't decide if i should continue with reading woolf's the years or go for murdoch's a severed head (having been seeking it out of for so long) or nana to continue the zola labyrinth in a topical way
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sick of my own face and my stupid eyebags and weird complexion like why am i so ghostly pale what the heck
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nobuyoshi araki
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Marten Lange, Untitled (Cave), from his Series “Another Language”, (2012)
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William James, Psychology: The Briefer Course
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R. Zorno
The wind blowing into the room
Postcard sent by the author to Vincenzo Balocchi Italy. 1940
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all i ever feel in this body of mine is varying levels of pain
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Brassaï • Paris de Nuit (4 étages à louer) 1932
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Quatre nuits d'un rêveur (Four Nights of a Dreamer) | Robert Bresson | 1971
Isabelle Weingarten, Jean-Maurice Monnoyer
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The pain was the world. The mind could not find a place outside it. He could hear the pain, staticky, in his hand and wrist. He closed his eyes again, briefly. He could feel himself contained in the dark but also just beyond it, on the lighted outer surface, the other side, belonged to both, feeling both, being himself and seeing himself.
Cosmopolis, Don DeLillo, 2003
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no bad lyrics in a nin song are actually bad. they are pure and beautiful
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finally watched love in the afternoon and it was absolutely awful . just wanted to put that out there <3
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Architects' studio, Szolnok planning department, 1975. From the Budapest Municipal Photography Company archive.
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Interior of the former Carmelite convent in Paris
French vintage postcard
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