I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close. Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets (via kushandwizdom)
2,796 notes· 1 day ago · reblog
White people in America are a trip… they exterminate the Native American and then try to dress just like them. What kind of necrophilia is that?

A Huey P. Newton Story


(via asantecanuslove)

(via raduim)

15,677 notes· 1 day ago · reblog

following back similar ;-)
by borud