Dancing to The End

Give me something I can touch when the sun rise
Give me something I could taste when my tongue’s tied
Love life don’t waste another night
Stage dive, jump like you could fly
Die young or grow old
One shot before you know, you’re gone

—SOL (via hmbil)


This plays in my head when I finish a big assignment. I’m like, “Yeah bitches! Almost summer time! Let’s celebrate!”

April is the cruelest month, breeding
lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
memory and desire, stirring
dull roots with spring rain.

—T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land (via hellanne)

(via mama-wolfff)