this is all i can say.

𝚁𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴, 𝚆𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴 𝙼𝙰𝚈 𝙰𝙵𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙽𝙾𝙾𝙽𝚂 𝙻𝙰𝙽𝙳.

[aseaofquotes]

Julie Anne Peters, By The Time You Read This, I’ll Be Dead

[holyisthenameofmyruthlessaxe]

the pain I don’t say out loud, builds a home inside me.

Life of the Party, ‘No Baptism’ by Olivia Gatwood (via deformititties)

[showings]

“You, God, who live next door— If at times, through the long night, I trouble you with my urgent knocking— this is why: I hear you breathe so seldom. I know you’re all alone in that room. If you should be thirsty, there’s no one to get you a glass of water. I wait listening, always. Just give me a sign! I’m right here. As it happens, the wall between us is very thin. Why couldn’t a cry from one of us break it down? It would crumble easily, it would barely make a sound.”

— Rainer Maria Rilke, tr. Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy, “Du, Nachbar Gott, wenn ich dich manchesmal” |  Rilke’s Book of Hours: Love Poems to God

[ryebreadgf]

[weltenwellen]

Rita Dove, from “November for Beginners“

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“I open to you like a flowering wound,”

— Erica Jong, from Becoming Light: New & Selected Poems; “After The Earthquake,”

[vesselsofmercy]

“I sit reading as if you were watching me, and I love you and want you to love me.”

– Boris Pasternak to Marina Tsvetaeva from Letters: Summer 1926

[useless-catalanfacts]

La Seu Vella, Lleida, Catalonia. Photos by Adeline Gressin

[soracities]

“…how I love your handwriting, that running shadow of your voice…”

— Vladimir Nabokov, in a letter to his wife Véra (1937), Letters to Véra

[heartcountry]

“So in my defense, when he touched me, the lights of my body came on. In my defense, the windows were thrown open. In my defense, spring.”

— Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz, from “Not Doing Something Wrong Isn’t the Same As Doing Something Right” in her book, The Year of No Mistakes

[detailedart]

The Comet Book (1587), details, “16th-century treatise on comets, created anonymously (or maybe it was a woman who endured erasure) in Flanders (now northern France)”. Originally named in german Kometenbuch.

[stlowens]

Anne Sexton, from “The Touch.”

[before-life]

St. Peter’s Basilica, Vatican City by vtarnini

[endless-unfolding]

“…is it suffering or goodness that makes them holy, or can anyone tell the difference?”

— Margaret Atwood, from “The Saints,” in Interlunar

[winterlady1967]

“… write to me about yourself; tell me your life and loves, and all that keeps you wondering. Who are you ? (what a difficult question for any one of us to answer !) I, at any rate, am your friend.”

— Oscar Wilde (1854-1900), in a letter to Philip Houghton [?Late February 1894], in  “Oscar Wilde: A Life In Letters” (via finita–la–commedia)

[cardinail]

maybe i just love hands but i feel there’s such symbolism in bernardo always clasping his hands together (and the few instances he doesn’t). it feels, only at times, like a desperate clinging. a way to keep his longing to himself. to contain his love. for his hands–his desire–to not reach out to another in a way that breaks his vows. still, he has his rare moments. like when he skyped lenny. his hands laid on both sides of the keyboard, stationary, almost nearly moving in a soothing/rubbing motion like he wants to reach out. lenny even has his moments of placing a hand on bernardo and bernardo does not reciprocate. he stays still. the only time their hands touch are when lenny is in mortal peril. the! agony! in that! in the new pope, when bernardo resists the temptation to act on his desire with another priest, and he stoops alone (seemingly alone, but lenny is there and i mean come on) on his bed, even then his hands are laid on top of each other. flat and dead.

[cardinail]

excuse me!!! not to get too “tumblr fanatic deep dives into analyzing gifs” on you but what can this mean! other than! longing! lenny lays a hand on his shoulder and one of his hands literally pulses open then shuts with such visceral intent from the touch. he wants! to! reach! back! but he won’t! he can’t!

[indaymusic]

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Pulaski At Night | Andrew Bird

I write you a story But it loses its thread