Leda et le cygne, painting by Henri-Paul Motte, 1900
todays bird

shark vs the universe
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
Show & Tell
Claire Keane

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
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dirt enthusiast
sheepfilms
Misplaced Lens Cap
Today's Document
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year

Origami Around

blake kathryn
AnasAbdin
Sade Olutola
noise dept.
Mike Driver

Kaledo Art

Love Begins
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@8chinyere
Leda et le cygne, painting by Henri-Paul Motte, 1900
Hello, It’s Me || Todd Rundgren
I have stopped being hard-headed and have created the Substack many people have asked me to on here. I have a belief calling yourself a “writer” is arrogant but that’s what I am and I have to let this idea go. I must stop sabotaging myself. Some of you know I’m not just a sexy bitch. I just be saying shit.
I just be saying shit.
Practice keeping opinions to yourself and you will find that no one actually wants to hear them
"Kasse II, portato" by Frank Lepold.
I see how you see
L'oiseau de Paradis
A Victorian dollhouse, late-1800s
You'll find what I'm saying in what I'm not saying. And when I say what I really mean, without implication, you still won't understand. I talk to walls, maybe I like the sound of my voice? If I'm being honest, and maybe this is wrong, I'm just playing, experimenting, narrating the unseen, asking what you're begging anyone to ask, witnessing and reporting back. My favorite kind of eroticism is sterile, lab-like. Beakers, graphs, gloves. Good time, no mess
Everyone is behaving in ways they were never meant to and wonder why they're miserable. Embarrassingly quick to blame, making it easier to go on like that. What becomes of a naturalist when there is nothing natural left to observe? Feeling everything, nothing, everything. I'm unmatched and lonely in my curiosity. I'll be your friend and you won't know how to be mine. I don't need much yet somehow it is always too much. No more lessons—one will be left feeling incompetent and/or like they're not enough. Love is meant to be transactional, like me and the trees. the flowers and the bees. What is a naturalist, a lover, meant to do when nothing is natural? Everything I love exists in my imagination. I am left with loving the act of loving, which is, has to be, okay with me.
Does anyone count the days/weeks/months their parent goes without talking to them? I always imagine him dead in his small apartment. I call, he answers, and the counting starts all over again
Marion Palfi, Untitled (Sono Osato), 1944
It’s just me and my mean mugger wife in the end.
I love you, Anna (моя матрешка)🪆☆
LOVE OF MY LIFE 💍👨❤️💋👨
Isabelle Huppert for BALENCIAGA FW25 campaign taken by Juergen Teller