trying on a metaphor
todays bird

oozey mess
Claire Keane
occasionally subtle
Cosimo Galluzzi
wallacepolsom
will byers stan first human second
DEAR READER
KIROKAZE

Origami Around
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ

ellievsbear

JBB: An Artblog!
d e v o n

@theartofmadeline

⁂

shark vs the universe
styofa doing anything

Kiana Khansmith
seen from Germany

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seen from United States

seen from United States
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seen from United States
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seen from Türkiye
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seen from Poland
@fated-fateless
Felix Kreutzer - Ruins of a Gothic Chapel at Full Moon Night
Inktober day 1: Coriander: Hidden Worth
Hill of Crosses; Vilnius, Lithuania.
hunters’ moon, yves olade
[ID: “it is no longer enough to be gentle things; blood has too long a memory.” end ID]
Victor Hugo’s Blotto Drawings In Coal, Dust And Blood (1848-1866).
“Exaltation is a tremendous lucidity” (Le vertige est une lucidité formidable), particularly an exaltation carrying you simultaneously towards day and night, composed of two eddies turning into opposite directions. One sees too much and not enough. One sees everything, and nothing” – Victor Hugo (1802-1885).
i need to get laid¹
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¹gently, in the cold, dark earth
─ The Mennonite Preacher Anslo and his Wife (Details) by Rembrandt Harmenszoon Van Rijn (1606-1669)
[Man, it sure has been a while, hasn't it?]
[I am piecing together a verse for Bloodborne just now - as I'm slowly getting through the game, now that I finally have a console to play it on.]
[Cannot promise anything in terms of... productivity, but I really want to revamp this blog a little and have some good writing going on, so if anyone would be interested, I'm all up and ready and desiring to do some plotting 💜💜💜]
[Man, it sure has been a while, hasn't it?]
this user wants to lay down in a field of flowers for a bit.
Chancel of a village church, Oxfordshire
The morning song. 1883. Book cover, detail.
La Belle Dame sans Merci, by John Keats:
“O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing. O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel’s granary is full, And the harvest’s done. I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever-dew, And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too. I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful, a fairy’s child; Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She looked at me as she did love, And made sweet moan I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery’s song. She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna-dew, And sure in language strange she said— ‘I love thee true’. She took me to her Elfin grot, And there she wept and sighed full sore, And there I shut her wild, wild eyes With kisses four. And there she lullèd me asleep, And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!— The latest dream I ever dreamt On the cold hill side. I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!’ I saw their starved lips in the gloam, With horrid warning gapèd wide, And I awoke and found me here, On the cold hill’s side. And this is why I sojourn here, Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing.”
Above: La Belle Dame sans Merci, 1893, by John William Waterhouse (1849-1917)