LF @ambivalent8 - Tumblr Blog

classycookiexo

fragrantblossoms

Kazuko Miyamoto. Jumpers and Stars, 1983. Installation view, Lower East Side, New York.

wildbeautifuldamned

Battersea Bilston Enamel – Love Me Dont Deceive Me – Patch Box C 1790 ebay isellhardtofind

mutant-what-not

disease

wordsforyoungmen

reyhanblog-deactivated20231002

foresteeyes

i think love is stored in nighttime conversations and “did you eat yet” and books left outside your door and “i waited to watch this with you” and splitting something in half to share and “im proud of you” and folded towels and “you can pick” and heads on shoulders and “you’re right, that was shitty. im sorry” and knocks on doors and “DINNER!” and stupid jokes and “hey i got this for you” and coffee made just right and… there are so many ways people say i love you silently every day over and over again if you only listen

leatherandmossprints

‘Laziness’ by Félix Vallotton, c. 1896.

flowerytale

Celeste Ng, Little Fires Everywhere

dwellsinparadise

I have a theory that the moment one gives close attention to anything, even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself. I have tried this experiment a thousand times and I have never been disappointed. The more I look at a thing, the more I see in it, and the more I see in it, the more I want to see. It is like peeling an onion. There is always another layer, and another, and another. And each layer is more beautiful than the last.

This is the way I look at the world. I don't see it as a collection of objects, but as a vast and mysterious organism. I see the beauty in the smallest things, and I find wonder in the most ordinary events. I am always looking for the hidden meaning, the secret message. I am always trying to understand the mystery of life.

I know that I will never understand everything, but that doesn't stop me from trying.

I am content to live in the mystery, to be surrounded by the unknown. I am content to be a seeker, a pilgrim, a traveler on the road to nowhere.

—Henry Miller, Black Spring