@galleyqueen - Tumblr Blog

oldfarmhousefallfeatures

heehee🖤happy monday

utwo

MB 300SL Gullwing

realityayslum

John Thomson - Interior of Western Gallery, 1866.

… via the National Gallery of Canada

be-artistic-deactivated20230306

herhandsomedevil

orangieporangiepuddingpie

Joaquin Phoenix, Prada 1997

cloudbeam

“love is a clash of lightnings, two bodies subdued by one honey.”

— Pablo Neruda, from 100 Love Sonnets (via honeyfleshed)

mimosita

“My face is still burning from the Black Sea sun and from the summer night, from the full moon and his green eyes. I am burning like embers. I am glowing in the dark.”

— Domnica Radulescu, from Train to Trieste (Knopf, 2008) (via cafecoton)

windydesert

“Maybe you are searching among the branches, for what only appears in the roots.”

— Rumi (via tzb108)

allrosesandhoney

I am a girl who will always be a girl. One who likes climbing trees, tangled hair, and swimming in creeks, but also rosy cheeks and perfumes from Eze. I will never be ashamed of the laugh lines around my eyes or my dirty feet. I will pass down my underlined books to my children, along with the coral cameo ring I bought in Florence. For the rest of my life I will always be a school girl, running until my lungs are sore.

madaeleinestudies

“Wherever there is music, she is too, / in the soft blue of the sky, in Grecian verses, / in the mirror of water that flows from the fountain, / in the marble of time, in a sharpened sword, / in the serenity of an open terrace / that looks upon the gardens and the sunsets. / And behind all the myths and masks: her soul, which is always alone.”

— Jorge Luis Borges, tr. by Paul Weinfield, from “Susana Bombard,” (via pairedaeza)

hannahjb-deactivated20231015

“Cities are smells: Acre is the smell of iodine and spices. Haifa is the smell of pine and wrinkled sheets. Moscow is the smell of vodka on ice. Cairo is the smell of mango and ginger. Beirut is the smell of the sun, sea, smoke, and lemons. Paris is the smell of fresh bread, cheese, and derivations of enchantment. Damascus is the smell of jasmine and dried fruit. Tunis is the smell of night musk and salt. Rabat is the smell of henna, incense and honey. A city that cannot be known by its smell is unreliable. Exiles have a shared smell: the smell of longing for something else; a smell that remembers another smell. A painting, nostalgic that guides you, like a worn tourist map, to the smell of the original place. A smell is a memory and a setting sun. Sunset, here, is beauty rebuking the stranger. But to love the sunset is not, as they say, one of the attributes of exile.”

— Mahmoud Darwish, In the Presence of Absence (via echymosis)