[huariqueje]

White Nights of a Northern Summer - Victoria Crowe 

Scottish, b. 1945 -

Oil on linen , 81 x 76 cm.

[cpahlow]

[bat-luun]

[said with increasing amount of distress] i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this i got this

[holespoles]

Lucy Willis, 1954, Cats, 1988, etching on paper.

[porcelainapparition]

Flintlock Farm

Harvard, Massachusetts

1782

[mollybeenoel]

[sweetlicorice]

Gorgeous

[wajb]

in these times of extreme surveillance, tumblr’s nonfunctional search engine stands in solidarity with the revolutionary

[mothprincess]

Mary Oliver, from The Fire

[yama-bato]

Gustaf Fjaestad

[lamignonette]

[ahalal-uralma]

Artist: Gustaf Fjaestad

[frostedmagnolias]

Women's Evening Cape

c. 1917

unknown maker

Powerhouse Collection

[depsidase]

[worldsandemanations]

"Birds in Winter" by the Polish illustrator and artist Józef Wilkoń (b. 1930).

[fluentisonus]

imagine if there were annoying astrology people who try to make it all a comment on your personality but about the french republican calendar "ohhhh you were born on the day of the chestnut......... this explains so much"

[taylornprice]

daily drawing in the sketchbook

[dridelus]

[variationsonthewordsleep]

Night Walk

The all-night convenience store’s empty and no one is behind the counter. You open and shut the glass door a few times causing a bell to go off, but no one appears. You only came to but a pack of cigarettes, maybe a copy of yesterday’s newspaper – finally you take one and leave thirty-five cents in its place. It is freezing, but it is a good thing to step outside again: you can feel less alone in the night, with lights on here and there between the dark buildings and trees. Your own among them, somewhere. There must be thousands of people in this city who are dying to welcome you into their small bolted rooms, to sit you down and tell you what has happened to their lives. And the night smells like snow. Walking home for a moment you almost believe you could start again. And an intense love rushes to your heart, and hope. It’s unendurable, unendurable.

by Franz Wright