agnellina ♾ felix

glance at the sun. see the moon and the stars. gaze at the beauty of earth’s greenings.

[carolathhabsburg]

Marie Doro as Oliver Twist.

[turndecassette-deactivated20171]

hey @dotfisheries it’s the spooky little man you wanted me to “post somewhere on the internet”

[legitime-demence]

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“To sleep in one another’s arms, and dream of waves, flowers, clouds, woods,”

— Percy Bysshe Shelley, from The Collected Poems of P. S; “Epipsychidion,”

[delusionarchives]

https://www.instagram.com/p/BvbcRgYFXqT/

[minimalist-home]

[tomorrowcomesomedayblog]

[ella-gone-ajdhfajhdlf]

Françoise <3

[diony-sienne]

[nevver]

What’s for lunch? Joanna Maclennan (photos)

[yua]

Yuka Mannami by Petra Collins for Numéro TOKYO May 2019

[yan-wo]

Frederic Edwin Church, Cotopaxi, 1862

[lamignonette]

[loumargi]

Victor Nizovtsev ~ 1965

[oliviafortune-deactivated201910]

Hāadāgung by Olivia Fortune

Il hāadāgung, I am told, that these are the Haida words meaning, he exists.

And the words ring a chime deeper than even my own native tongue.

Existere, Latin, to come into being, stand forth, the infant manifestation.

He is his own seed, created in my mind, grown like a child in the womb.

Watermelon Man, sweet, be sweet, is sweet, wonderful fruit, from the frailty of a vine.  

Il hāadāgung, il hāadāgung, the words are a rattlesnake in my mind…warning?

The weather moves in the bones of his feet, the briny wind from the ocean,

He is pulling the waves across the shore, like a Selkie king, in his sealskin.

Weather woven, by his walk across the sands of the alabaster coloured beach.

He’s been shifting all the colours of the paints in a blue-green sky of the soul.

Hailstorm, crying in a thunder of Tyrian purple, first found on the muzzle of a dog.

The unknowns of his existence present proofs in the pangs of a once contented heart.

A waning, and invisible moon, begins, by stages, begins waxing in a sliver, a white nail.

As though I were one, blinded by birth, I have felt his icon in the dark, a knowing without sight.

In the scent of grasses, the spirits of leaves, after a rain shower, his essence, announcing him, unseen.

[annahlmn]

[libertarirynn-deactivated202006]

French mourners sing Ave Maria as they watch Notre Dame burn.

[barcarole]

The church of Notre-Dame de Paris is still no doubt, a majestic and sublime edifice. But, beautiful as it has been preserved in growing old, it is difficult not to sigh, not to wax indignant, before the numberless degradations and mutilations which time and men have both caused the venerable monument to suffer, without respect for Charlemagne, who laid its first stone, or for Philip Augustus, who laid the last.

On the face of this aged queen of our cathedrals, by the side of a wrinkle, one always finds a scar. Tempus edax, homo edacior [Time is a devourer; man, more so].

Victor Hugo, Notre-Dame de Paris: Book Third, Chapter I. Notre Dame (trans. Isabel Hapgood) Eugène Atget, Notre Dame, Paris, 1926.