Laurent Castellani
One Nice Bug Per Day
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
h
dirt enthusiast
Jules of Nature
TVSTRANGERTHINGS

No title available

Janaina Medeiros
NASA

⁂

Discoholic 🪩

oozey mess
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
🪼
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

shark vs the universe
RMH
d e v o n

@theartofmadeline

Andulka
seen from Mexico

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States

seen from Poland

seen from China
seen from Italy

seen from Australia
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Netherlands
seen from United Kingdom

seen from China

seen from United Kingdom

seen from Singapore
seen from Malaysia
seen from Australia

seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Singapore
@acraving
Laurent Castellani
Arizona sunset swirls kevinruss.com
Santorini, Greece
Leira Chen
“Being with you and not being with you is the only way I have to measure time.”
— Jorge Luis Borges
“Mount Fuji from Gotenba” de
Yoshida Hiroshi 吉田博 (1876 – 1950).
Peintre et imprimeur d'estampes sur bois. Il est considéré comme le plus grand artiste de style shin hanga 新版画 (Litt. nouvelles gravures) et particulièrement apprécié pour ses impressions de paysages.
I understood that as much as I had resisted the outside, as much as I had constricted my life, as much as I had closed and narrowed the channels into me, there were still many takers for the quiet heart.
Steve Martin, The Pleasure of My Company (via books-n-quotes)
Anais by Journelle / 30-36 A-F
Villa Treville / Positano 🇮🇹 #positano #architecture #amalficoast (en Villa Treville Positano)
Flying back to
La Jolla
and paradise
and my tribe
what makes a home?
and having someone there
and who is that someone
what makes us click
you can’t fix it
predict it
Landing
and leaving
and coming
and going
Remember when we said one more song
and you played Only Living Boy in New York
but I left it on repeat
and we had to go.
You with the keys, driving
my suitcase
the filson bag
your truck
our hands
the airport goodbyes
This is us
the in between time
so much distance
even when we’re both here
You’re working when I get back
I come home to an empty house
The key in the lock at 4 am
no longer cause for concern
I’m in your tshirt and underwear waiting
and finally
some conversation face to face
about our days
we fall asleep at 6
I rise at 7:30 to feed the dog
another night together.
Close your eyes. A lover is standing too close to focus on. Leave me blurry and fall toward me with your entire body. Lie under the covers, pretending to sleep, while I'm in the other room. Imagine my legs crossed, my hair combed, the shine of my boots in the slatted light. I'm thinking My plant, his chair, the ashtray that we bought together. I'm thinking This is where we live. When we were little we made houses out of cardboard boxes. We can do anything. It's not because our hearts are large, they're not, it's what we struggle with. The attempt to say Come over. Bring your friends. It's a potluck, I'm making pork chops, I'm making those long noodles you love so much. My dragonfly, my black-eyed fire, the knives in the kitchen are singing for blood, but we are the crossroads, my little outlaw, and this is the map of my heart, the landscape after cruelty which is, of course, a garden, which is a tenderness, which is a room, a lover saying Hold me tight, it's getting cold. We have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven, which brings us back to the hero's shoulders and the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it. The lawn drowned, the sky on fire, the gold light falling backward through the glass of every room. I'll give you my heart to make a place for it to happen, evidence of a love that transcends hunger. Is that too much to expect? That I would name the stars for you? That I would take you there? The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube? We've read the back of the book, we know what's going to happen. The fields burned, the land destroyed, the lovers left broken in the brown dirt. And then's it's gone. Makes you sad. All your friends are gone. Goodbye Goodbye. No more tears. I would like to meet you all in Heaven. But there's a litany of dreams that happens somewhere in the middle. Moonlight spilling on the bathroom floor. A page of the book where we transcend the story of our lives, past the taco stands and record stores. Moonlight making crosses on your body, and me putting my mouth on every one. We have been very brave, we have wanted to know the worst, wanted the curtain to be lifted from our eyes. This dream going on with all of us in it. Penciling in the bighearted slob. Penciling in his outstrechted arms. Our father who art in Heaven. Our father who art buried in the yard. Someone is digging your grave right now. Someone is drawing a bath to wash you clean, he said, so think of the wind, so happy, so warm. It's a fairy tale, the story underneath the story, sliding down the polished halls, lightning here and gone. We make these ridiculous idols so we can to what's behind them, but what happens after we get up the ladder? Do we simply stare at what's horrible and forgive it? Here is the river, and here is the box, and here are the monsters we put in the box to test our strength against. Here is the cake, and here is the fork, and here's the desire to put it inside us, and then the question behind every question: What happens next? The way you slam your body into mine reminds me I'm alive, but monsters are always hungry, darling, and they're only a few steps behind you, finding the flaw, the poor weld, the place where we weren't stitched up quite right, the place they could almost slip right into through if the skin wasn't trying to keep them out, to keep them here, on the other side of the theater where the curtain keeps rising. I crawled out the window and ran into the woods. I had to make up all the words myself. The way they taste, the wy they sound in the air. I passed through the narrow gate, stumbled in, stumbled around for a while, and stumbled back out. I made this place for you. A place for to love me. If this isn't a kingdom then I don't know what is. So how would you catalog it? Dawn in the fields? Snow and dirty rain? Light brought in in buckets? I was trying to describe the kingdom, but the letters kept smudging as I wrote them: the hunter's heart, the hunter's mouth, the trees and the trees and the space between the trees, swimming in gold. The words frozen. The creatures frozen. The plum sauce leaking out of the bag. Explaining will get us nowhere. I was away, I don't know where, lying on the floor, pretending I was dead. I wanted to hurt you but the victory is that I could not stomach it. We have swallowed him up, they said. It's beautiful. It really is. I had a dream about you. We were in the gold room where everyone finally gets what they want. You said Tell me about your books, your visions made of flesh and light and I said This is the Moon. This is the Sun. Let me name the stars for you. Let me take you there. The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube... We were in the gold room where everyone finally gets what they want, so I said What do you want, sweetheart? and you said Kiss me. Here I am leaving you clues. I am singing now while Rome burns. We are all just trying to be holy. My applejack, my silent night, just mash your lips against me. We are all going forward. None of us are going back.
Richard Siken, Snow and Dirty Rain
So I have feelings. So I have them for you. So I didn’t think you’d try to stop me.
Richard SIken, from The Torn-Up Road (via halflunar)
via weheartit