Pretty Things

According to this model, human beings are, at least in one aspect, sensation-receiving machines; and although our receptory apparatus is competent to select and organize outward stimuli within the narrow range necessary for physical survival within our environment, it does not necessarily tell us very much about the nature of that environment. People, in other words, have little access to the possible world existing beyond their sensations.

“

—	Cruce Stark, The Haunted Dusk

charmaineolivia:

Inked Girls magazine outtake 2011 💜

youreyesblazeout:

on a Friday night,
even when you stay in
you go out

rolledtrousers:

Terror From the Deep

Through the half remembered haze of childhood nostalgia, I’ve got a few clear scenes that stand out as pools of certainty amid an ocean of ambiguous halftruths and formative thoughts that exist more as something I’ve been told in the present than something I recall from the past.

My sister created villages with her toys. Societies operating in the microcosm of her bedroom, achingly beautiful and intricate constructions that she spent ridiculous amounts of time and effort establishing, elaborating on, and explaining to herself, to the unresponsive air and her silent protagonists.

To me, it was just a target. Something that had been so painstakingly established was too juice of a proposition, something so painfully pretty couldn’t be suffered to exist. A toddler-come-godzilla, I stomped through and wrecked the lot. I was a terror.

I see your beauty and I can’t stand it. I want to ruin it, somehow, mar your perfection with some blemish, whether it bruise or scratch, cut or indelible marker. I can’t suffer you to exist as you are, so self contained and separate from me. I want to leave my influence on your person, in a way that can’t just be rectified with little trouble. And if that means breaking you down, I’ll tear down the structure from the foundations until there’s nothing but rubble.

I’m a terror, and you should run. But for some reason you just keep walking closer, with that half unsure smile on your face.

And what of the most intense pleasures, the personality-annihilating ecstasies of sex? I am no longer a young man; even if I chose to discard my celibacy I would surely have lost my stamina, re-erecting in half-hours where once it was minutes. And yet if youth were restored to me fully, and I engaged again in what was once my greatest delight – to be fellated at stool by nymphet with mouth still blood-heavy from the necessary precautions – what then? What if my supply of anodontic premenstruals were never-ending, what then?

“

—	Jesus I. Aldapuerta, The Eyes: Emetic Fables from the Andalusian de Sade

yourclassyslut:

summer dresses

nevver:

Please