I’m reminded every summer that Hell smells not of fire and brimstone but rather of sweaty children and sunscreen.
“I watched her brushing her hair, holding her head so the weight of her hair all came on one side. It was dark outside and the light over the head of the bed shone on her hair and on her neck and shoulders. I went over and kissed her and held her hand with the brush and her head sunk back on the pillow. I kissed her neck and shoulders. I felt faint with loving her so much.” — Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms (via justagirlcalledjess)
(Source: gperrykarpy, via justagirlcalledjess)
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Next Saturday I shall don my kilt and get my haggis and caber tossing on. You have been warned.
(Source: fool-of-a-took, via donotpassgo)
“Rock ‘n’ roll is everybody’s fucking music…I would certainly hope that it’s the devil’s music, but it’s not just the devil’s music. I think that’s where God and the devil shake hands – right there.” — Neil Young (via rock-n-roll-is-religion)
(via brandnewradio)
(via abstrackafricana)
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Typewriter jazz
drips like watercolor
into the tear-flooded
chambers
of your half-hollow
heart,
And the alleyways
on the back of your hand
wind like boy scout knots
and nooses
made by men
who sing the blues
but everyday save their necks
from it
Because hand-painted tiles
on their mothers’
kitchen floors
remind them that they don’t have to
be marble monuments
to survive
history.
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