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December 09 2014

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#holidaytips [damsell]

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My 90-year old grandma mailed a homemade vest for me to “wear to parties”. It’s…amazing. #9gag

Reposted fromPcsl Pcsl viano-longer-kore no-longer-kore

November 26 2014

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Reposted fromhorses horses

November 25 2014

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Apologetic bus
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How to Tell

by ttanner2448

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This thing that goes bump in the night

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Reposted byno-longer-korewonkoponybraxtonnefertari180vilandralunadrink-mebrightbyteheld0ftheweltnibblerznuhdafilpsyentistcituberzahlbezironiip856bombenresixalzupacebulowazEveR
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The First Avenger
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by juliedillon.deviantart.com

-- Alan
Reposted fromvolldost volldost viaCurumo Curumo

November 08 2014

“My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.   Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.   What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?   I never know what you are thinking. Think.”     I think we are in rats’ alley   Where the dead men lost their bones.     “What is that noise?”                         The wind under the door.   “What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?”                         Nothing again nothing.                                                 “Do   You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember   Nothing?”           I remember                   Those are pearls that were his eyes.   “Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?”  
— T. S. Eliot, excerpt, The Wasteland
Reposted byrainstormdragon rainstormdragon

The Wife Of Flanders, by G. K. Chesterton

Low and brown barns, thatched and repatched and tattered,
Where I had seven sons until to-day,
A little hill of hay your spur has scattered ...
This is not Paris. You have lost the way.
You, staring at your sword to find it brittle,
Surprised at the surprise that was your plan,
Who, shaking and breaking barriers not a little,
Find never more the death-door of Sedan--
Must I for more than carnage call you claimant,
Paying you a penny for each son you slay?
Man, the whole globe in gold were no repayment
For what you have lost. And how shall I repay?
What is the price of that red spark that caught me
From a kind farm that never had a name?
What is the price of that dead man they brought me?
For other dead men do not look the same.
How should I pay for one poor graven steeple
Whereon you shattered what you shall not know?
How should I pay you, miserable people?
How should I pay you everything you owe?
Unhappy, can I give you back your honour?
Though I forgave, would any man forget?
While all the great green land has trampled on her
The treason and terror of the night we met.
Not any more in vengeance or in pardon
An old wife bargains for a bean that’s hers.
You have no word to break: no heart to harden.
Ride on and prosper. You have lost your spurs.
Unreal City,
  Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,   A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,   I had not thought death had undone so many.   Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,   And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.    Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,   To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours   With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.   There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying “Stetson!   You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!    That corpse you planted last year in your garden,   Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?   Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?   Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,   Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!    You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”
— T. S. Eliot, excerpt, The Wasteland

The Hollow Men, by T. S. Eliot

Mistah Kurtz—he dead.

A penny for the Old Guy

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

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World War I - Propaganda  

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third ypres
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