Kate/19/San Diego-->Los Angeles-->Saratoga Springs
-->New York City-->Repeat

Freelance Photographer, and this is just the inspiration bible

so stylish

Christina Ricci - The Face, February 1998
Hell is when people you love the most reach right into your soul and rip it out of you. And they do it because they can.
by Jess Rothenberg, The Catastrophic History of You and Me (via jaimelannister)

(Source: larmoyante, via jaimelannister)


Light fixture designed, assembled and photographed by foie gras


I can’t 2013

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

by Dr. Maya Angelou — poet, essayist, historian, actress, and activist — died this morning at age 86. This is the title poem from her 1978 poetry collection, And Still I Rise. (via jubilantics)

(via jaimelannister)


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