the fall of the rebel angels Psalter of Saint Louis and Blanche of Castile, France
(via cybrsect-blog)
0de2two015
After squaring off an entire bottle of red wine precariously stored in the wine rack of this family home i find myself perched within alone and desolate on a Friday night, I think it’s safe to say I’m drunk. It is my last night in America, on the helm of an eventful sojourn through the continent. I’m heading back home to Melbourne tomorrow, from where I’ll leave to Istanbul for my semester of exchange. As such, this blog will come to encourage nutrients that foster the inevitable adversity of jarring culture shock. In the past, I have been responsible for delivering mighty wounds to those I care about. May this penchant remain firmly rooted in the past, and may the future yield relationships absent of the emotional and psychological duress that has thus far defined my life. I’m mostly oblivious to how I hurt people. This is no excuse, rather, it is my perspective. I’ve persistently behaved abhorrently and callously, and though that may not necessarily end, may I gather more important figures around me who understand the extent of my flaws and accept me regardless.
Petition for someone to fuck me as hard as 2014 did
Sculpting daughters out of wood mulch at the park (running count of Yaya’s kids - at least 7) (at Bel Aire)
The opposite ends of a dialectic spectrum feel more like home to me than any house ever could.