“ABOVE me are the Alps,
The palaces of nature, whose vast walls
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,
And throned eternity in icy halls
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls
The avalanche,—the thunderbolt of snow!
All that expands the spirit, yet appalls,
Gathers around these summits, as to show
How earth may pierce to heaven, yet leave vain man below.”
Lord Byron - « Morat », Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, 1818.
are we gonna fuckn hold hands tonight or what bitch
It’s not so much a matter of giving up on chasing that high but it’s like the panic in needle park. The supply has dried up so you get sober not because you want to, but because there’s nothing around worth getting high on.
Cliché, but true
Our entire world history nailed.
Things which remain consistant - Sex, death and war.
this is the greatest thing I have seen on tumblr.