Katsushika Hokusai (Japanese,1760-1849)
The waterfall of Amida behind the Kiso Road, c.1827
woodblock print

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Monterey Bay Aquarium
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Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

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Jules of Nature
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Katsushika Hokusai (Japanese,1760-1849)
The waterfall of Amida behind the Kiso Road, c.1827
woodblock print
Various wings from Roberto Fieri's paintings
My other half, behind an illusion
Tzion ‘Zio’ Essel
Marin Majić (German, 1979) - Midnight Spoils (2023)
Jef Bourgeau. 2025 . Nothing as lovely as a tree.
Agony screams loudest in solitude. The skeleton won’t help you. Blood surely doesn’t taste sweet, and you’ll resent those scars someday. Sloppy words lace themselves into the knives you leave nestled between ribs and vertebrae. The more you starve, the more mesmerizing it becomes. Metal, bone, metal, bone. Of course you know. The peace of fixation. A slow heartbeat. Forgotten love. A slow bleed. Then you’ll be able to sleep.
Pond by Axel Sauerwald
AM I EVER GONNA SHAKE YOU OFF ?
SO EMBEDDED IN MY SKIN
EMPTY IN MY HEART
GOD, I WONDER
I STARVE STRAIGHT TO THE BONE
CARVE IT ALL OUT AND SEE THE BEST
LAID RIGHT NEXT TO ME
I SEE YOU IN OTHER FACES
SEARCHING, FOREVER WARNING
Moon landscapes, spring
Polaroid SX70 Sonar Polaroid 600 Film
nature artwork by Andy Goldsworthy
Venus and Anchises (Venus och Ankises), by Johan Tobias Sergel.
within one leveled breath, i may know you then cease to exist. how easy it is to know the intimacies of abandon and self restraint. she is indeed my most nostalgic lover. the promise of her emptiness, the gift of her consumption. these things embrace me in desperation. i swallow the burn readily, breathless and starving, knowing this is the taste of gratitude.
Albarrán Cabrera
Clouds by straychi1d
how many ways are there to profess adoration? I sit with grounded patience. it’s a comforting silence where in this garden, I wait for the lilies to bloom. staring straight into this picture of what could be. that’s just the issue, isn’t it... the loudness of this discipline, hoping to grow your favorite flower. what else is there aside these midnight confessions and sugared tears separated through a phone line. where a voice makes forever feel like a second. maybe honey isn’t your favorite flavor, yet i still carry it with me. and maybe im no good at hiding it, yet you’re still here. such a thing will always transcend any distance. that warm sparkling flutter. the tingling burning of not knowing… how much time do I spend here? how long does it take for a flower to grow? how many hours do I have before it wilts? i wonder if you can drape the same lines of elegance between hidden meaning, or if my patience has only begun to beget the heat.