mörpheüs

Hi, I'm Cami, live in Colombia, say I'm weird, honest, friendly, humble, rude. I'm an illusion of elegance. I love writing and photographing twilight. God is the most important of my life.
Love and Peace. <3

February 10, 2012 12:08 pm

(Source: thefuckingnameislove)

12:07 pm

(Source: thefuckingnameislove)

12:06 pm

(Source: thefuckingnameislove)

12:06 pm

(Source: luxurynglamour, via thefuckingnameislove)

12:03 pm

(Source: thefuckingnameislove)

12:01 pm
stadtjunge: Alexander Wells.

stadtjunge:

Alexander Wells.

11:57 am
dnlfn: They were depressives, all. Depressives come straight from the clinic. They had crash landed somehow somewhere. They walked for days, unable to tell where the hell they were or whether they had made any sort of progress. They kept their spirits high by making jokes at the expense of those who hadn’t survived the fall. They allowed themselves to enjoy—maybe for the first time in their lives—the wonderful weather, the impossibly ironic wonderful weather. How lucky we are, they thought. We have this beautiful lack-of-landscape to walk on and such comfortable air to walk through. What kind of pilot can’t fly through this gorgeousness without trouble? Shmuck. Glad he’s dead.  Truth be told, all of this felt like a vacation to them—a vacation made all the more refreshing by the knowledge that there probably would be no return to the daily stresses that would have made the vacation necessary in the first place. A final vacation: unplanned and undeniable. It was here, they would enjoy it. Thank you, schmuck. Thank you for the vacation. They walked on. Seven days of tightly packed sandwiches later and the first stomach rumbled without receiving an answer. This was the final stretch—everyone knew it, nobody said it, nobody cared. In fact, there would never be anything but optimism from the group: optimism that they would make it back to safety, optimism that they would die, optimism that they would find something inside themselves along the way to make all this seem worthwhile, just plain old-fashioned sunshine-on-my-shoulders optimism. Keep walking. There’s something on the horizon. I see it. Don’t you?

dnlfn:

They were depressives, all. Depressives come straight from the clinic. They had crash landed somehow somewhere. They walked for days, unable to tell where the hell they were or whether they had made any sort of progress. They kept their spirits high by making jokes at the expense of those who hadn’t survived the fall. They allowed themselves to enjoy—maybe for the first time in their lives—the wonderful weather, the impossibly ironic wonderful weather. How lucky we are, they thought. We have this beautiful lack-of-landscape to walk on and such comfortable air to walk through. What kind of pilot can’t fly through this gorgeousness without trouble? Shmuck. Glad he’s dead. 

Truth be told, all of this felt like a vacation to them—a vacation made all the more refreshing by the knowledge that there probably would be no return to the daily stresses that would have made the vacation necessary in the first place. A final vacation: unplanned and undeniable. It was here, they would enjoy it. Thank you, schmuck. Thank you for the vacation. They walked on.

Seven days of tightly packed sandwiches later and the first stomach rumbled without receiving an answer. This was the final stretch—everyone knew it, nobody said it, nobody cared. In fact, there would never be anything but optimism from the group: optimism that they would make it back to safety, optimism that they would die, optimism that they would find something inside themselves along the way to make all this seem worthwhile, just plain old-fashioned sunshine-on-my-shoulders optimism. Keep walking. There’s something on the horizon. I see it. Don’t you?

11:53 am

(Source: ffoodd, via thefuckingnameislove)

11:52 am

(via thefuckingnameislove)

11:52 am

(via thefuckingnameislove)