(Source: gurlpwr, via gypsy--smoke)
(Source: maryjanepennylane, via gypsy--smoke)
(via toufiiiburnsred)
Hand Harp
Banyan Tree and 16th Century Terracotta Temple, Attpur, West Bengal, India
I wouldn’t recommend sex, drugs or insanity for everyone, but they’ve always worked for me.
—Hunter S. Thompson
(via confrontadora)
(Source: bonitaapplekush, via hemptemples)
First thing I have ever written in prose style…
Winter had marked its stain and sat comfortably beneath his frosting window occasionally scramming through the cracks with a whisper of a breath. There loomed a serious darkness in the atmosphere accompanied by an eerie undertone of something similar to desire. I had grown melancholic and there was an air of toska in every thought my mind delivered; mainly I focused on society. This was a true weakness of mine, I’d previously force fed my brain Marx in attempt to create the notion of revolution in any debate I’d encounter, however after a summer filled with dangerous intoxicants and mind bewildering conversation I no longer contemplated his theories with rationality, but instead with a fragrance of psychosis and a fixation on doom. I sat uncomfortably at the edge of his bed and drove my tightened fists into his duvet. The alarm clock sighed and he awoke gently from a sleep entangled with dreams he wouldn’t remember. The room was filled with the smell and smoke of burning marijuana and as he rose from bed he recognized this. The look on his face can only be described as disgust which I could only marvel at it with a pertness I usually get away with. He leaned back with his arms clutching the back of his neck and smiled only a half smile. A flicker of sunlight caught my eye as it was dissolving under a rain cloud, I pressed my body forward to reach for the ash tray and re-lit the smoke which had died minutes before; the place needed lightening up.
