I’m not sure what it is about this photo that gives me so much delight. I just love it. The scarf is top shelf to say the least. It’s thrown on with true “who gives a fuck” attitude. The conflicting textures of a straw hat, cashmere sweater, denim pant and silky scarf have me dying to let the tactile pads of my finger tips explore his person. I have to imagine that’s the intended purpose of this ensemble: drum up some touchy feely business.
The chest is laughing at the cardigan’s attempt to contain it. It’s explosively powerful. That much is obvious. High percentage of rapid-twitch-muscles in those hairy mounds. I’d hate to be the bench press bar on the business end of those fuckers. Its a rocket-paced ride to full extension.
The stance says it all. Dropped shoulder and a half-cocked smile that screams, “You’ll never know if I’m in on this joke, suckas.”
(Source: niick4)
(Source: wedrewourveryownconstellations)
(Source: beepboopboopbeep)
(Source: shiruken)
(Source: tasteslikefood)
Just cause I thought I related to these so much , & they make me ctfu ;3
Follow me cause I DO follow back ^_^
(Source: leepacin)
HOLY SWEET GOD HIS FACE.
UGH.
I CAN’T LOOK AT IT ANYMORE.
but I must.
because he is GORGEOUS.
ABOUT
I'm Agatha, 19, UCSD class of 2016!
“Because of you, in gardens of
blossoming flowers I ache from the perfumes of spring. I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands; how did your lips feel on mine? Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks, the white statues that have neither voice nor sight. I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten your eyes. Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of you. I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will do me irreparable harm. Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls. I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window. Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting stars, falling objects.”
-Pablo Neruda
