The only people I would care to be with now are artists and people who have suffered: those who know what beauty is, and those who know what sorrow is: nobody else interests me.

Oscar Wilde (via fantasiesandgraves)

mythologyofblue:

Robert Wharton, The Pleasures of Melancholy, A Poem, 1747

This. – View on Path.

“Life makes detectives of each of us. There’s something at the end of the trail that we’re all looking for.”