live at the province of the brave
( ela desenha )



I read this comic 2 days ago and I’m STILL laughing at it

fiz uma lojinha com uma amiga <3
(lembrando que também trabalho com encomendas. se você gosta de um seriado/filme e quer um desenho OU um retrato cartoon de namorado/amigocolorido/amiga/mãe/pai/etc me escreva.)

I’m actually still doing a lot of editorial work, I just keep forgetting to upload any of it! Here’s a comic I did for the New York Times Private Lives column back in July, thanks to AD Nathan Huang. I’ll upload more pieces later!


The Secret Inhabitant ~ Johanna Öst

A is for Abecedarian
A Literary Alphabet
Adapted from The Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms by Chris Baldick
We came to a restaurant with a tower on it. It was warm inside, but there was a squalid November light in the place, as well as numerous well-to-do families seated at the tables. Her lips pale, her face red from the cold, Dorothea said nothing. She ate a kind of cake she was fond of. She was still beautiful; nevertheless her face kept dissolving in that light, dissolving in the gray of the sky. On our way down we easily found the right path, which was very direct, laid out in switchbacks through the woods. It had stopped snowing, or almost had; the snow had left no trace. We walked quickly, slipping or stumbling from time to time. Night was falling. Farther down, in the half darkness, the city of Trier appeared. It stretched along the far bank of the Moselle, with high square towers rising above it. We little by little lost sight of these towers in the night. As we went across one clearing we saw a house, low but vast, surrounded by arbored gardens. Dorothea spoke of buying the house and living there with me. There was nothing left between us except disillusioned hostility. We could sense it: we mattered little to one another, not, at least, after anxiety abandoned us. We were hurrying toward a hotel room, in a city that we had never seen until the day before. In the darkness we sometimes reached out toward one another. We would look into one another’s eyes, not without dread; we were bound together, but we no longer felt the slightest hope. At one turning in the path, an empty space opened beneath us. Curiously, this empty space, at our feet, was no less infinite than a starry sky over our heads. Flickering in the wind, a multitude of little lights was filling the night with silent, indecipherable celebration. Those stars — those candles — were flaming by the hundred on the ground: ground where ranks of lighted graves were massed. We were fascinated by this chasm of funereal stars. Dorothea drew closer to me. She kissed me at length on the mouth. Sheembraced me, holding me violently tight; it was the first time in a long while that she had let herself go. Leaving the path across plowed earth, we took the lover’s dozen steps. We still had the graves below us. Dorothea opened wide, and I bared her to the loins. She in turn bared me. We fell onto the shifting ground, and I sank into her moist body the way a well-guided plow sinks into earth. The earth beneath that body lay open like a grave; her naked cleft lay open to me like a freshly dug grave. We were stunned making love over a starry graveyard. Each of the lights proclaimed a skelton in its grave, and they thus formed a wavering sky, as unsteady as the motions of our mingled bodies. It was cold. My hands sank into the earth. I unbuttoned Dorothea, smirching her underclothes and breast, with the cold earth that stuck to my fingers. Emerging from her clothes, her breasts were of a lunar whiteness. We let go of one another from time to time, simply letting ourselves quiver with cold: our bodies were quivering like two rows of teeth chattering together.
- Georges Bataille, Blue of noon (via ranchocarne)




Calvin and Hobbes


xkcd breaks down the actual science of finding your soul mate … with the necessary disclaimer.