Unclean with Joy

[asylumpiecings]

Gandalf

[deprincessed]

Lovisa Ingman in ‘Almost Paradise’ by Sayaka Maruyama for Leur Logette #6

[figmas]

[americaneldritch]

Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

From Gustave Dore’s the Raven (1884). Engraved by Robert Hoskin, colored by Aladdin Collar. 

[odyssey420]

[windwrinkle]

[antigonick]

She was a romantic, sentimental child, with a preference for solitude, few friends, and a propensity to be moved to tears when the roses in the garden bloomed, when she smelled the rags and soap the nuns used as they bent over their tasks, and when she stayed behind to experience the melancholy stillness of the empty classrooms.

Isabel Allende, The House of The Spirits (via antigonick)

[riggu-deactivated20200703]

Swimming with Diamonds, Woodstock, New York, 2002 From the series Pull Back the Shade Duratran photograph in light box

by Muzi Quawson

[ohnorobo]

“こちらのお写真では「鹿島神宮」と言う場所にある 「御手洗池」と云う御池の様なのですが”

[pastelcthulhu]

Visit Original Link

[suiyobish]

[miaamanan]

[trulyvincent]

The Fairy Tale Isaak Brodsky - 1911

[barcarole]

Lauren Bacall in 1945, by Nina Leen.

[ffspunk]

you’ll get sick again because sick is what you know

[derekletterine]

“Malanka” Elizaveta Porodina for Vogue Ukraine, January 2017

[asylumpiecings]

I am an object loved by God. And that makes flowers blossom upon my breast. He created me in the same way I created the sentence I just wrote: “I am an object loved by God” and he enjoyed creating me as much as I enjoyed creating the phrase. And the more spirit the human object has, the greater God’s satisfaction. White lilies pressing against the nudity of my breast. The lilies I offer to whatever hurts inside you. Since we are beings and needy. Even because certain things—if not given away—wither. For example—beside the warmth of my body the petals of the lilies would wilt. I call out to the light breeze for my future death. I will have to die because otherwise my petals will wilt. And that is why I give myself to death every day. I die and am reborn. I have also already died the death of others. But now I am dying intoxi- cated with life. And I bless the warmth of the living body that withers the white lilies. Desire, no longer moved by hope, calms and longs for nothing. . . . I will be the impalpable substance that has no memory of the year before.

Clarice Lispector