Transatlanticism.

(Source: darynberry, via staypozitive)

(Source: Flickr / milesfbowers, via katiesadreamer)

tylerknott:

Treehouse Photography’s first senior photo shoot of the season kicked off with a ballerina. Here is Julia, with far more grace than I will ever possess.

(via sopeopleatschoolwontfindme)

(Source: jansport)

(via ithinkshetookmysoul)

gdxphoto:

Hey Marseilles at my house. 

Cleaning Lady: “…… I hate you.” 

(Source: gdxphoto)

“I can’t tell you why I’m sitting there or what I say when I’m sitting there, but it was incredibly emotional,” Says Fisher, at the old receptionist station while Krasinski looks on. “Not only to be back at the desk, but to know that it was for the last time. It was a really special place for me. When all of the madness between Jim and Pam happened, that’s where I would sit.”

(via jimhalpert)

tylerknott:

Typewriter Series #408 by Tyler Knott Gregson

Text for Tired Eyes:

I think she has roots in the soles of her feet
and when she walks
she plants herself into the earth
and lets the earth take hold of her.
I think if you listened close enough
for long enough
you could just make out the sound
of those roots in those soles
lifting through the soil
sighing in the sunlight
and digging their way back into the darkness
with each and every step.
I’ve met people who are fire,
all flame and spark and the promise
of combustion.
Without fail and without doubt
I’ve been burned and boiled
and left with nothing but the residue
of the ash they left behind on my skin.
I’ve felt the breezes of people who are wind,
airy and light and always drifting.
They cool the soul and for a moment
you close your eyes and feel their
breath across your face but always,
always, open them sometime or another
to their absence.  They always,
always, blow away and you’re left
with tousled hair and the numbness where
they rested.
I think I am the water and I think I always
have been.  I go my own way and somehow
without knowing how, find my way through the
cracks and crevices, the grooves and holes
in the rocks that form around these
fragile hearts.
I think she is the earth and has roots
in her soles and leaves in her hair.
She curls her toes into the sand and
braces herself against the wind,
defiant against the flames
and holds tight to the world as it
spins beneath her.  We spin and only
she can feel it.
I think she has roots and her roots
need water and I am the water and always
have been and know and hold the secrets
to sinking beneath the soil
to give strength to the growth
that’s been waiting to come.
Some people are fire
and some are wind
but we are water and earth
and through the roots on her
feet and the leaves in her hair
she will drink me and absorb
all I have ever been.

I can hear the sound
of her footsteps
now.