*a text conversation*
Tony: Did you eat today?
Nat: lol no i’m too busy
Tony: You need to FRICKING EAT
Nat: wise words coming from the man who never eats or sleeps
Tony:
Tony: Go back to Russia.
Nat: no
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Stephen: that’s a horrible Christmas gift idea.
Tony: trust me, he’ll love it!
-
Peter, attempting to cuddle all 15 roombas: I LOVE MY CHILDREN MISTER STARK
“I have already lived too long in another world, and I want to go back there again.”
— Egon Schiele, from a letter to Edith Harms written c. November 1916 (via violentwavesofemotion)
Natasha: What did I tell you not to do?
Clint: Burn the house down.
Natasha: And what did you do?
Clint: I did not burn the house down! If it weren’t for the wind-
Natasha: WHAT did you do?
Clint: I burned down the house.
hir·aeth
/‘hir,āeth/
noun
a homesickness for a home you can not return to or a home that never was.
“…and her voice, like that of princesses in fairy tales, breathes roses.”
— Maurice Maeterlinck, from Complete Poems & Plays; “Princess Maleine,”
- Natasha: Come with me.
- Clint: Uh, no. I'm never doing anything blindly with you again. I learned that at the Mexican border.
- Clint: Twice.
“I see her pure, pale aura shine, piercing, sweet / Sharp as death, or sin.”
— Marya Zaturenska, from The Collected Poems; “The Angel of the Solitary,”
(via loveage-moondream)
“Her skin’s as soft as that of certain fruits, you can’t grasp her, she’s almost illusory, it’s too much.”
— Marguerite Duras, from The Lover.
“Because a ballerina resembles a tear …”
— Luis García Montero (1958), form “XXIII”, translated from the Spanish by Alice McAdams
(via poetic–rose)