Vkntmoodboard: Still From Le Sang D'un Poète (The Blood Of A Poet) — Jean Cocteau (1930)
alliekiley: I understand, all right. The hopeless dream of being - not seeming, but being. At every waking moment, alert. The gulf between what you are with others and what you are alone. The vertigo and the constant hunger to be exposed, to be seen
