ACNE

I would not be mad if I got any of these for my birthday.

I have treated as a priority who treats me as an option.

UNREQUITED.

I stumbled across this blog called 365 secrets. It's the same old story about not being loved back and it's a fucking tragedy. It's a little bit crazy but it's also a little sweet. This girl posts a new secret every couple of days. You can even send her your own and she posts a collection.

I always did wonder what happened to Paris in Romeo and Juliet.

http://www.my365secrets.blogspot.com/

my365secret@hotmail.com

"A double bed
And a stalwart lover for sure
These are the riches of the poor


And I want the one I can't have
And it's driving me mad
It's all over, all over my face".

The Smiths

My wish list for winter

Miu Miu Heels

This is Genevieve Knit

Shukuhachi Dress

Vintage Dior Hat

Ralphie...

Kiss Me

Terry for Purple Fashion Magazine.....

Just a little bit wet.

Catherine Baba

all i will say is i want her big red coat.

Ralphie...

Insignificant Contributer

"Welcome to the Show, I Would Vomit up my Life If I Could"

Once or twice in your life,

Someone comes along and before you met them you felt whole, complete.

But as you become close to them, when they leave, it's as if they take half of you away with them...

And you have to learn to live your life as half a person.

More painful than this and dreadfully under minded is being that person who has the urgency to leave.

Falling out of love, is like the dwindling comfort of a sleeping lovers embrace.

In the beginning you feel warm, loved and secure.

Then, as the night shed's its darkness, you realise his skin stubble is scratching your nose, your arm has gone dead underneath him and in the harsh reality of day light,

Nothing is the same.

You pull away, and wrap yourself inside once more...
x.

Insignificant Contibuter

"He was Powerful," she said. "And I Died of Love In His Shadow"

Here is the deepest secret that nobody knows.

Here is the root of the root
And the bud of the bud
And the sky of the sky
Of the tree called life, which grows higher than the soul can hope or the mind can hide.

And this is the one that is keeping the stars apart.

I carry your heart...

I carry it in my heart.

-Note: Not my words, but so beautiful they couldn't be kept.

Francois Nars

Celebrating 15 years of the Nars cosmetic and skin care range Francois Nars created a book containing 15 images of his favourtie people with all proceedings going to charity.

I think I might go buy myself some cosmetics.......

Ralphie...

Cameron Russel

Quelqu’un m’a dit (Carla Bruni) – translation « Nichita Stanescu

Quelqu’un m’a dit (Carla Bruni) – translation « Nichita Stanescu:

"I’m told that our lives aren’t worth much,
They pass like an instant, like wilting roses.
I’m told that time slipping by is a bastard
Making its coat of our sorrows.
Yet someone told me…
That you still loved me
Someone told me…

That you still loved me.
Well ? Could that be possible?
I’m told that fate makes fun of us,
That it gives us nothing and promises everything,
When happiness seems to be within our reach,
We reach out and find ourselves like fools.
Yet someone told me…

That you still loved me
Someone told me…
That you still loved me.
Well ? Could that be possible?
Well ? Could that be possible?

So who said that you still loved me?
I don’t remember any more, it was late at night,
I can still hear the voice, but I can no longer see the face,
“He loves you, it’s secret, don’t tell him I told you.”
You see, someone told me

That you still loved me
Did someone really tell me?
That you still loved me
Well, could that be possible?

I’m told that our lives aren’t worth much,
Passing in an instant, like wilting roses,
I’m told that time slipping by is a bastard,
Making its coat of our sadnesses.

That you still loved me
Someone told me…
That you still loved me.
Well ? Could that be possible?"

Attack of the Prophits

Vogue Nippon..

Vogue Nippon

Daria Frolicking in the Golden Field..

Ralphie....

Kurt Geiger

What I would do to have these on my feet....

Ralphie...

I Dont Care

I don't care that you don't love each other anymore.

I don't care that you might want to lunch at the Y now.

I don't care that you've packed up all her things in a little room like you think that will take away all the pain.

I don't care that you over compensate by telling me you love me 4000 times a day.

I don't care that your in denial thinking this wasn't happening.

I don't care about your new apartment or how nice your balcony is.

I don't care that you've both got depression at the same time.

I don't care that you keep changing your mind about whether you will get back together or not.

I don't care that I can't remember a whole week in my life when you were happy.

I don't care that you thought moving here would make you happy and fill a hole.

I don't care who started it or who is making it worse.

I don't care that he's sending you horrid messages.

I don't care that you think you can never see her face anymore.

I don't care that the thought of her sitting on the same chair that you are sitting on makes you want to reach into your chest and pull out your heart.

I don't care that you think he doesn't want to see you face anymore.

All I care about is when you are both happy whether that's together or apart.

Ralphie....

I want to love and live like the ancients.

It’s difficult to describe that moment when you connect with a piece of art. I get it with words but I know it can happen with music or photography or sculpture. I’m talking about that moment when you engage with somebody else’s work and it’s describing your own life. To be clearer it’s the perfect break up song, the one where ALL the lyrics match instead of the one where you have to pretend you were in love with a girl named Delilah. (P.S. Best ever break up song- You Am I, Heavy Heart, seriously.)

We can all agree that the subject matter of a large majority of creative endeavors is love. It’s a topic that we can relate to, in one-way or another. For me it’s the heartbreak stories. I have this habit of reading a book or listening to a song or looking at a photo that’s a positive representation of love and thinking, “yeah I get it, it’s cute, and now ‘let me count the ways’ it could fail”. It’s the lost love that speaks to me. There’s just something so genuine about torment.

There’s a melancholic beauty to reading a verse of text that describes the precise way in which you feel like total shit. When it seems like whoever wrote it must have had their heart ripped out in exactly the same manner as you.

I think the reason I relate to these bleeding hearts is because I know what it’s like to write about being hurt. That little blinking cursor is ready to hear what you have to say. There’s nobody to offer clichéd advice or question your decision making skills after you drunk dialed someone that everyone knows doesn’t want you. You get to choose all the dramatic words that you like and to act like it’s the end of the world. You are able to say everything you never said and everything that wasn’t listened to. It’s cathartic and there’s nothing else like it.

Recently I haven’t been able to find a lot of inspiration for my personal writing. And I can’t help but wonder if the writer’s block is a symptom of too many healthy relationships. I am happy. It doesn’t seem to require much embellishment and you don’t get to use nearly enough swear words when you’re writing about loving life.

I can archive nearly every piece of my private writing in relation to a boy. One lover was even something of a sick muse who treated me very badly and provided me with words like ammunition.

Does this mean my writing is only useful as a healing tool? Does it mean I whine too much? I probably do. But I miss feeling the pen like an extension of myself and the ink like my own sweat and tears. Am I a literary masochist?

It can be incredibly difficult to cast your gaze outwards and upwards. For example it’s sad but it’s often much easier to remember the worst thing a person ever said to you rather than the best. It’s even more miserable that it’s always easier to remember the worst thing a person’s ever done to you rather than the worst thing we ourselves have done to another. We’re so intent on our own suffering.

And then being in a good relationship is completely terrifying because there’s no one left to blame. We collect all these bad experiences over the years and then all of a sudden it can seem so difficult to be loved. Because maybe you haven’t had enough practice.

I see those that I love giving pieces of themselves away to people that don’t deserve them. When do you get to the point where there aren’t enough pieces left to make a whole?

I guess I’m writing this to say there’ll always be a story about a broken heart, but I wish it never had to be yours.

So you too are a fan of the modern woman, that poor hysterical little female, who, in somnambular pursuit of her dream, her masculine ideal, fails to appreciate the best man and who, amid tearful fits, neglects her Christian duties every day, cheating and being cheated on, constantly seeking and choosing and rejecting, never happy never making anybody happy, and cursing fate instead of calmly admitting: ‘I want to love and live like the ancients’.

(Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, Venus in Furs)

Jeffrey Campbell, Take 2.

So in a tragic turn of events my last pair of Jeffrey Campbell wedges were foolishly left in a taxi on their first ever outing. So to whoever found my size 8 black suede beauties... you're welcome. Fuck you.

So this is my second attempt at Jeffrey Campbell shoes and hopefully it ends better. The Mary Roks were sold out and anyway I couldn't bear to pay up all over again so I ordered these:

I also have a close eye on these for winter...

loverrrrs

Mama and Papa, back in the day.

They lived on a houseboat! So cute.

Daisy.