Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein—we’ve All Been There In One Way Or Another.

enemies to lovers romance between me and myself

Holding it Up.

Classic Academia

Beige trench coat , wool sweaters, plaid skirts, think feminism fatale, but educated , sobbing in bed late at night over the secret history or dead poets society, tea with milk and sugar , subsequent tea strains.

Instagram: @/imgabrielfelix @/xsbel

you know what fuck school im heading to the forest to disappear and become a local cryptid

"It's pouring, the trees are getting greener before my eyes, I love you. I'm almost afraid of the intensity of this happiness."

Vladimir Nabokov, from Letters to Vera tr. by Olga Voronina & Brian Boyd

Things of bittersweet beauty:

empty perfume bottles

dead roses

deserted hallways

abandoned buildings

unsent letters

old photographs

07.02.2021 | francesca alexander in the biblioteca nazionale centrale di firenze and angelica kauffman, self portrait as the muse of painting, in the uffizi

i wish we had dictionaries with poetic definitions in them. what is life? what is death? what is love? what is hate? tell me what it means in beautiful verses.

‘Summer Day’ by Frank Weston Benson (american, 1862 - 1951)