Castle and church of Bled | Slovenia (by Lenart Zore)


Reblog this to enter for a chance to win a skin code from PAX. I currently have (one entry only) 

  • 2 Riot Blitz Codes
  • 2 Arctic Ops Varus Codes
  • 1 Arcade Hecarim Code
  • 1 Riot Ward Skin Code

THIS GIVEAWAY WILL END TONIGHT WHENEVER I GET HOME FROM PASSOVER DINNER (so I predict 9pm EST), I’ll announce the winners then. Codes will be first come first serve for the winners. Happy reblogging ;D 

(via vectorman)

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New plugs! #omericaorganic
Thank you, Ty. They’re beautiful.



Held my breath and drove through a maze of wealthy homes. 
I watched how green the trees were. I watched the steep walkways and the white fences. 
I gripped the wheel. 
I sweated against the leather. 
I watched the dogs twist through the wealthy garden. 
I watched you lay on a towel in grass that exceeded the height of your legs. 
I gazed into reflective eyes. 
I cried against an ocean of light.

Crippled by the cushion, I sank into sheets frozen by rose pedal toes. 
My back shivered for your pressed granite nails. 
Dishonest and ugly through the space in my teeth. 
Break bones down to yellow and crush gums into blood. 
The hardest part for the weak was stroking your fingers with rings full of teeth..

It’s 5 A.M…and my heart flourishes at each passing moment.

Always and forever.

(Source: usita4, via coffinxhead)

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The Witches’ Sabbath

My class let our instructor say “Photogenic Memory” 3 times today without correcting him.

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Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer. Reality is beans and tofu, and ashes at the end. Reality is the strip malls of Burbank, the smokestacks of Cleveland, a parking garage in Newark. Fantasy is the towers of Minas Tirith, the ancient stones of Gormenghast, the halls of Camelot. Fantasy flies on the wings of Icarus, reality on Southwest Airlines. Why do our dreams become so much smaller when they finally come true?

We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.

They can keep their heaven. When I die, I’d sooner go to Middle-Earth.

- George R.R. Martin (via northwolves)

(Source: fourcolorfanboy, via jaimegoldenhand)

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