His hands keep turning into birds and flying away from him.

After your dreams have all died and morning isn't morning, what are you?

[salonduthe]

Osijek, Croatia.

Leaft art by Nicola Faller of Slama Art project.

August 2021.

(source)

[horygory]

HG. 101 - Parasyte: The Maxim (2016)

[trulyvincent]

Utagawa Kuniyoshi 

[saveflowers1]

Art by Ida Rentoul Outhwaite (1921) - “The Water Fairy.”

[halloweenhalloweenhalloween]

[exhaled-spirals]

Lying there among the trees, despite a learned wariness towards anthropomorphism, I find it hard not to imagine these arboreal relations in terms of tenderness, generosity and even love: the respectful distance of their shy crowns, the kissing branches that have pleached with one another, the unseen connections forged by root and hyphae between seemingly distant trees. I remember something Louis de Bernières has written about a relationship that endured into old age: “we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossom had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two.” […] I think of good love as something that roots, not rots, over time, and of the hyphae that are weaving through the ground below me, reaching out through the soil in search of mergings.

Robert Macfarlane, Underland: A Deep Time Journey (via exhaled-spirals)

[nostalgicspaceman]

Viviane Sassen

[bodylonging]

[fried1ton]

gnnoh_: https://www.instagram.com/p/BpY5c_IABQg/

[sophi-aubrey]

this walk hand-in hand will end in the stars

[mujeresartistas]

Pan Yuliang - Chrysanthemum and a Nude (1948).

Oil on canvas

[1010ll]

[bodylonging]

If you asked me, I would say my love is loud. Constant. My love is a child running up and down the aisles of sense. It is hopeful and glad and unyielding. It is everything I have ever wished for, standing perfectly still. In this poem, I am myself. In this poem, I am grateful, curious, empathetic. Tomorrow I am someone else. Tomorrow I am the version of myself that I have been building for years. The unkind, selfish, untruthful me. But today, in this poem, I am me. When we fell in love, I stopped thinking that I was a bad person. In this poem, I am forgiving. I cry. I am the perfect woman. In this poem, you are a clock, counting down to my next break.

[bodylonging]

she tells me about her dreams. in them, I am a destroyer. I am not the one who picks her daisies but dyes them black. she tells me about her dreams. in them, she is someone violent. she throws the glass bottle and it hits a four-year old version of herself. i don’t know what this means but she kisses me like she can’t forget it. 

[thedudeleftthebuilding-deactiva]

[aperiodofsoftness]

[hirokazukoreeda]

Man Facing Southeast (Hombre Mirando al Sudeste) 1986, dir. Eliseo Subiela.