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kilifilithorinandco:

sainteflanelle:

hawkshunt:

sainteflanelle:

lorex3:

sainteflanelle:

here’s a fucking transparent poutine on your dash

Wtf is that….

ça mon enfant c’est ce que mangent les dieux; des criss de grosses frites grasses, des tabarnak de bons morceaux de fromage squick-squick et de l’ostie d’grosse sauce brune dla mort. voila ce que c’est dla poutine.

et par dieux, elle veut dire canadiens

et par dieux je veux dire québécois

Ngggggghhhh, donne moi.

one must have a mind of winter to regard the frost and the boughs of the pine-trees crusted with snow; and have been cold a long time to behold the junipers shagged with ice, the spruces rough in the distant glitter of the January sun; and not to think of any misery in the sound of the wind, in the sound of a few leaves, which is the sound of the land full of the same wind that is blowing in the same bare place

for the listener, who listens in the snow, and, nothing himself, beholds nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

(Source: pjransone)

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