About

Martha-my-dear is my name. 21 years of age. Socially terrified. Animal lover. The Beatles. Patchouli oil as perfume. Fascinated by beards. Lennon/McCartney. Styles/Tomlinson certainly. Glam rock. Nonsense story writer. A loony loon. :)

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(Source: lasylphidedubolchoi)


(via swanfairy)

"Human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we tap crude rhythms for bears to dance to, while we long to make music that will melt the stars."

~ Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary (via itsfromabook)

(via booklover)
angrywhistler:

Thomas Robson

Louis in the Story Of My Life Video

Louis in the Story Of My Life Video

(Source: 1dalerthq)


(via theemmed)

~ Gloomy Sunday - Billie Holiday

amajor7:

Gloomy Sunday | Billie Holiday

This song was actually composed/written by Hungarian pianist Rezső Seress and László Jávor in 1933. It has become known as the “Hungarian Suicide Song”. It has been blamed for causing several suicides around the world, because many people have been found dead by means of suicide with this song playing.

Gloomy Sunday was popularized in the forties with Holiday’s version. It’s still my favourite.

"Gloomiest Sunday, with shadows I spend it all
My heart and I have decided to end it all
Soon there’ll be candles and prayers that are said, I know
But let them not weep, let them know that I’m glad to go”


(via amajor7)

sunday is gloomy and my hours ever slumber

I dislike the system of life and death- Im conflicted by it- the fear of death and anger and the impending end that makes us unable to enjoy what moments- ends that we have- illnesses assessed and interpreted so that wiser minds proclaim and exclaim and decide its time for hard drugs to earn the body a reprieve- and so the body starves and quietly fades away- breath by breath the heart works to prolong life as the conscious mind evades the conscious reality and the last sense to fade is that of hearing so rightly we should all continue to converse in gentle tones- perverse subtly extended euthenasia- honorable pretences- attempts at providing a prolonged sort of comfort- absence of pain or discomfort supposedly- in reality- im naive and inexperienced and i know little compared to minds who’ve made a lifes work of this- im naive and soft and i seek to pronlong life where little of it remains- little days left- im naive as i remember quiet words of thanks and explanations of meds and vitamin something and a certain non-parkinsons-ish ailment and spooning melted mouthfulls of vanilla icecream and thank you and a little more please and a brain striving to live and function in spite of the fucking great big fuck of a tumour growing and starving the very parietal lobe of life and blood and precious independant thought and- motor dexterity- motor movements lost- precise movements impossible- trembling jittery movements prevailing- sweet confused voice the last- white deteriorated gentle hair the next- deteriorated- degenerated- degenerating- deteriorating- body fading ever so slowly away- god- god- stan- body rotting- cells slowly dying- quiet long limbed cells- dying drying smelling of urine and stale breath and utter stagnating breaths- unresponsive- unresponsive to outside stimuli being a medically descriptive term- body sedated- hyoscine hydromorphone midazolam- voice shut tight- eyes gripping closed and- god i held his hands in mine- large and stiff-limp-large nailed fingers curling in and lips dry with white ever growing stubble- body similarly hardening and curling inwards- days hours days hours spent dying- god- body breathing beating struggling- i bet stan walks the halls at night and is free of the weakening flimsy constraints of his body- thin bones and little fat or muscle- death strips us all of contemporary measurings of eloquence and soft-smelling beauty and precious dignified propriety- death turns us into slowly starving emaciating ribs gone thin- emaciating gasping stale odoured piss odoured stiffening bodies with eyes shut tight with sleep and gunk and spittle mucus secretions bubbling wheezing in the cheeks and throat and lungs and god stan stan stan stan stan stan—- im angry at a life that wastes bodies and forces us to die-ugly beautiful and uses bodies let us down- skin too tight and eyes like marbles- stanley’s life is a glorious many moments of brightly coloured lights.