isobel
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sugar baby liquid tender fist slit gash knit water blister
suck my shit my toungue loose leaf laundry baby
baby sun hot flower ginger sick sock not pee piss
watch lick on me fuck window linger wreak

oh me, oh my.
my name is nicole
i stalk people
It's all about taking the time.
Chasing after it and the want to see the connections,
the details.
If you want it, you'll get me.

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“ Spiritual people can be some of the most violent people you will ever meet. Mostly, they are violent to themselves. They violently try to control their minds, their emotions, and their bodies. They become upset with themselves and beat themselves up for not rising up to the conditioned mind’s idea of what it believes enlightenment to be. No one ever became free through such violence. Why is it that so few people are truly free? Because they try to conform to ideas, concepts, and beliefs in their heads. They try to concentrate their way to heaven. But Freedom is about the natural state, the spontaneous and unselfconscious expression of beingness. If you want to find it, see that the very idea of a someone who is in control is a concept created by the mind. Take one step backward into the unknown.
— Adyashanti (via universoul)

(via pixiepuppy)
“ I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.
— Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis 

(Source: durianseeds, via finalflesh)
oh the katamari lyfe, i long for fantasy
colored water running over pores of paper,
i haven’t been getting enough sun, dammit. how are my flowers supposed to grow..
no wi’ve be ensle epin g.

when you get into those fits where you want to look and feel beautiful and scratch your face off at the same time.
where you feel like you should keep it all hush-hush but if you do you fear them dawgs will eat you hollow.
so what you decide to do instead is smoke them out, one inhale at a time til your clothes n’ hair smell like cigarettes but you sadly find that it’s all for naught cause there’s teeth marks on your calves anyways cause they’ve been in yer sheets this whole time, nipping at you during the long hours of the night and you realize that’s probably the reason why you haven’t had a decent nights rest.

“ You don’t know anyone at the party, so you don’t want to go. You don’t like cottage cheese, so you haven’t eaten it in years. This is your choice, of course, but don’t kid yourself: it’s also the flinch.

Your personality is not set in stone. You may think a morning coffee is the most enjoyable thing in the world, but it’s really just a habit. Thirty days without it, and you would be fine. You think you have a soul mate, but in fact you could have had any number of spouses. You would have evolved differently, but been just as happy.

You can change what you want about yourself at any time. You see yourself as someone who can’t write or play an instrument, who gives in to temptation or makes bad decisions, but that’s really not you. It’s not ingrained. It’s not your personality. Your personality is something else, something deeper than just preferences, and these details on the surface, you can change anytime you like.

If it is useful to do so, you must abandon your identity and start again. Sometimes, it’s the only way.

Set fire to your old self. It’s not needed here. It’s too busy shopping, gossiping about others, and watching days go by and asking why you haven’t gotten as far as you’d like. This old self will die and be forgotten by all but family, and replaced by someone who makes a difference.

Your new self is not like that. Your new self is the Great Chicago Fire—overwhelming, overpowering, and destroying everything that isn’t necessary.


— Julien Smith 

(via dollgirl)
you can crush it you can smash it it won’t stop ticking it won’t stop sticking to me like hot glue. i’ve tried to hush it, shush it, i’ve tried to stop it. but it comes back. bury it in the backyard, the dawg comes and digs it up again. leaves it at my feet again.
“ The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.
— John Milton, Paradise Lost 

(Source: larmoyante, via milkspores)
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