watermelondria

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  • 30th July
    2014
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  • 30th July
    2014
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  • 30th July
    2014
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  • 30th July
    2014
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    2014
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  • 29th July
    2014
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  • 29th July
    2014
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  • 29th July
    2014
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There is something about poverty that smells like death. Dead dreams dropping off the heart like leaves in a dry season and rotting around the feet; impulses smothered too long in the fetid air of underground caves. The soul lives in a sickly air. People can be slave-ships in shoes.
Zora Neale Hurston, Dust Tracks on a Road: An Autobiography (New York: HarperCollins, 1996), 87. (Originally published 1942)

(Source: vigilanteespresso, via ghdos)

  • 22nd July
    2014
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    2014
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    2014
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