PRETTY HATE MACHINE

Rabid bats, black death and mother's scorpion pie
eligalo:

“Alas! Reality is such a crippled whore.
All mortal things are sick and rotten to the core, only the mind, a frail but kingly jewel, gives birth to beauty love and truth.
So why not stay and forever make a home, in the darkness of the only place you never can belong?
In a land, sublime that some call fantasy; our only hope of love…
Or immortality.”

eligalo:

“Alas! Reality is such a crippled whore.

All mortal things are sick and rotten to the core, only the mind, a frail but kingly jewel, gives birth to beauty love and truth.

So why not stay and forever make a home, in the darkness of the only place you never can belong?

In a land, sublime that some call fantasy; our only hope of love…

Or immortality.”

I would rather be ashes than dust

I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot.

I would rather be a superb meteor, every atom of me in magnificent glow, than a sleepy and permanent planet.
 
The function of man is to live, not to exist.
 
I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them.
 
I shall use my time
 
~ Jack London

Let us toast to animal pleasures, to escapism, to rain on the roof and instant coffee, to unemployment insurance and library cards, to absinthe and good-hearted landlords, to music and warm bodies and contraceptives… and to the “good life”, whatever it is and wherever it happens to be.

—Hunter S Thompson  (via corpses-symphony)

(Source: maliceandtherabbit, via corpses-symphony)