lecoledesfemmeslaurasfez:

Saints have to come from hell, not heaven.

lecoledesfemmeslaurasfez:

Saints have to come from hell, not heaven.

Sometimes I leave my workout feeling as though I’ve overcome something, that I’ve put myself to the test and emerged triumphant. Then on that seemingly endless journey from garage to bathroom, I’ll begin to strip off my hand wraps and sweat soaked football jersey (the colours of a club I feel no particular loyalty or affection towards) and bask for a brief moment in the glow of being closer to some ill-defined and inarticulable goal.
But sometimes on the long walk back I’m struck by a very particular memory or a specific regret, and I’ll want to turn back and start the whole day’s programme again, and again, and again, fists landing like waves against a craggy coastline until my hands are bloody stumps and maybe then I’ll be able to fucking live with myself.

Sometimes I leave my workout feeling as though I’ve overcome something, that I’ve put myself to the test and emerged triumphant. Then on that seemingly endless journey from garage to bathroom, I’ll begin to strip off my hand wraps and sweat soaked football jersey (the colours of a club I feel no particular loyalty or affection towards) and bask for a brief moment in the glow of being closer to some ill-defined and inarticulable goal.

But sometimes on the long walk back I’m struck by a very particular memory or a specific regret, and I’ll want to turn back and start the whole day’s programme again, and again, and again, fists landing like waves against a craggy coastline until my hands are bloody stumps and maybe then I’ll be able to fucking live with myself.

How strange it is. We have these deep terrible lingering fears about ourselves and the people we love. Yet we walk around, talk to people, eat and drink. We manage to function. The feelings are deep and real. Shouldn’t they paralyze us? How is it we can survive them, at least for awhile? We drive a car, we teach a class. How is it that no one sees how deeply afraid we were, last night, this morning? Is it something we all hide from each other, by mutual consent? Or do we share the same secret without knowing it? Wear the same disguise?
It is a battle of amateurs and semiprofessionals — an emotional, dirty, ad-hoc war and a major accident waiting to happen.

The car scene from Before Sunset. I must’ve seen this a dozen times but, fuck man, I never really listened to it.

  

Thom Yorke - And It Rained All Night

flight-time:

Window Seat

flight-time:

Window Seat

Earlier this year I saw this still from the reportedly dreadful Pompeii captioned with “Previously on XXIV” and laughed for an entire week about it.

Earlier this year I saw this still from the reportedly dreadful Pompeii captioned with “Previously on XXIV” and laughed for an entire week about it.

Widowspeak - Full Performance (Live on KEXP)