The master chef and execs of a global food company just ate my food and said they love it omg

"Sunny, hot, rich, and beautiful," is how makeup artist Pat McGrath described the typical Sicilian look. That all translated to luminous skin, golden lids, and flushed cheeks.


→ For Lauren . Because you gave me feels, first thing in the morning!

Click to enlarge.

He says things like this and I am a total sucker for them :)


Mythology Series  |  Oenone & Paris

 She leapt upon his funeral pile,

And mixt herself with him and past in fire.

The Death of Oenone, Alfred Tennyson

Though little is known about her, Oenone was the first lover and wife of Prince Paris of Troy. Born a mountain nymph, she was skilled in the arts of prophecy and medicine. When Paris betrayed their marriage and lusted after Helen of Sparta, she was among the first to predict the Trojan war which would follow the abduction of Helen. Embittered by his betrayal, and burdened by the shame of rejection, Oenone refused to help the mortally wounded Paris when he came to her begging for her healing. When he died, Oenone was devastated by the loss of her husband and remorse overcame her. In a final act of devotion she threw herself upon Paris’ funeral pyre to join him in death.

Sometimes, I let myself prod at the hurt in the back of my mind, a huge, unrecognizable lump of tears and sobs that has never ceased to baffle me from the moment of its conception. And sometimes the despair tightens its hold, rolls me like beads of mercury between the unfathomable fingers of fate, and I let myself be dragged along. 

Sometimes, I let myself look at his pictures again. They don’t capture him well—how can Adonis’ image be transcribed into pixels on a screen or blots of ink on lonely pages? How can they trace the way the light curves around his face, too shy to place itself on his proper visage, and how can anything but feeble memory recall the way he seemed formed of shadows and shades? I have no memento, for I allowed myself no memento—packed away in boxes in my childhood room, discarded in that pile of sentiments in the basement of Pierson College, left behind in the country where we shared the best part of our time together. My memento is his image seared behind my eyelids, a murky form beneath coarse cotton sheets and golden limbs turned pale gray in the darkness of his room, inquisitive eyes imploring me from beneath two thick fringes of inky lashes. 

Sometimes, I let myself be tempted, the way a small child is tempted to plug her fingers into an electrical socket. Because pain trumps. Because we’re all a little addicted to tears and sobs. Because even for the most rational of minds, shared misery is preferable to loneliness.

Sometimes, I remind myself, I deserve better. 

rebecca cairns

“But he who dares not grasp the thorn 
Should never crave the rose. - Anne Brontë

Mikhailovsky Ballet dancers in ‘Le Corsaire.’ 


Haruki Murakami, “Concerning the Sound of a Train Whistle in the Night or On the Efficacy of Fiction”

I owe you so much.