I really despise when the athletes start crying because they performed badly. I mean sometimes you fail, but you never start sobbing on the sidelines. You go out with your head held high. I just lose a ton of respect for the athletes when this happens…
“There’s nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible is not death but the lives people live or don’t live up until their death. They don’t honor their own lives, they piss on their lives. They shit them away. Dumb fuckers. They concentrate too much on fucking, movies, money, family, fucking. Their minds are full of cotton. They swallow God without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them. Their brains are stuffed with cotton. They look ugly, they talk ugly, they walk ugly. Play them the great music of the centuries and they can’t hear it. Most people’s deaths are a sham. There’s nothing left to die.”—Charles Bukowski, The Captain is Out to Lunch and the Sailors Have Taken Over
“Words are, in my not so humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic; capable of both inflicting injury and remedying it.”—Albus Dumbledore-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (via keepingupwithgrishma)
In Barca we wear sandals or short flat boots. In Barca we sleep when we like and eat only tapas and aperatifs and hot pastries coming home in the morning. In Barca, we dance all night and kiss all the beautiful people we meet. We smoke weed on the beach at four am with boys who speak in broken inglesand laugh on the metro back to the flat. We shop for fruit, bright fruits, at La Boqueria, piled high with peaches and strawberries and melons, pineapples,pitayas, kiwis, glittering candied nuts, catalan cream fudge, wide-eyed lamb heads, empanadas. In Barca, one wall of our flat is orange and one is red and there is a baby in the flat upstairs who cries sometimes, midmorning when we try to sleep. Here, we fall asleep by the ocean and when we wake up, the water is blood-warm and the Moroccan men are walking between towels with their muttered offerings of “Cervesa agua coke”. At night they say “Panini cigaretta agua cervesa” and sometimes “weed coke mdma, hashish cocaina”. We drink on the street under bright strings of lights, sangria and mojitos, kisses and laughter and glances through lowered lashes at the foreigners at the table across from us. We dance along the street as the evening is young, we are young, and we shout madly when we are drunk and joyful. In Barca we go dancing in polished, high end clubs on the beach with bored, gorgeous skeletal dancers and tiny crowded ones by the harbour with fat, bored pole dancers and promoters who pick you up and carry you inside and give you warm shots for free. We are entranced by the coloured light like jewels pooling on the floors of cathedrals and we fling our arms wide and breathe in the air.
“We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken.”—Fyodor Dostoyevsky - Crime and Punishment (via ishallbe-infinite)
What if clouds and lakes switched spots and every time you looked up you’d see waves being pulled by the moon and we’d wade through the clouds on a hot day. What if birds grew grass and the ground grew feathers. What if flowers were as tall as trees and trees as small as flowers.
“A person of good intelligence and of good sensitivity cannot exist in this society very long without having some anger about the inequality - and it’s not just a bleeding-heart, knee-jerk, liberal kind of a thing - it is just a normal human reaction to a nonsensical set of values where we have cinnamon flavoured dental floss and there are people sleeping in the street.”—George Carlin (via mols)