The tuning of an orchestra — my most favourite sound in the world.
Chills every time .

Andulka

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The tuning of an orchestra — my most favourite sound in the world.
Chills every time .
Late March.
Here now.
Now here.
After All This by Richard Jackson
After all this love, after the birds rip like scissors through the morning sky, after we leave, when the empty bed appears like a collapsed galaxy, or the wake of disturbed air behind a plane, after that, as the wind turns to stone, as the leaves shriek, you are still breathing inside my own breath. The lighthouse on the far point still sweeps away the darkness with the brush of an arm. The tides inside your heart still pull me towards you. After all this, what are these words but mollusk shells a child plays with? What could say more than the eloquence of last night’s constellations? or the storm anchored by its own flashes behind the far mountains? I remember the way your body wavers under my touch like the northern lights. After all this, I want the certainty of hidden roots spreading in all directions from their tree. I want to hear again the sky tangled in your voice. Some nights I can hear the footsteps of the stars. How can these words ever reveal the secret that waits in their sleeping light? The words that walk through my mind say only what has already passed. Beyond, the swallows are still knitting the wind. After a while, the smokebush will turn to fire. After a while, the thin moon will grow like a tear in a curtain. Under it, a small boy kicks a ball against the wall of a burned out house. He is too young to remember the war. He hardly knows the emptiness that kindles around him. He can speak the language of early birds outside our window. Someday he will know this kind of love that changes the color of the sky, and frees the earth from its moorings. Sometimes I kiss your eyes to see beyond what I can imagine. Sometimes I think I can speak the language of unborn stars. I think the whole earth breathes with you. After all this, these words are all I have to say what is impossible to think, what shy dreams hide in the rafters of my heart, because these words are only a form of touch, only tell you I have no life that isn’t yours, and no death you couldn’t turn into a life.
Matisse
Embrace
Late 2019.
All is glad.
Remember: 5 months is not eternity. 2 months is not eternity. Even if it looks that way now.
Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via bethcchilds)
Rosy morning porthole view.
Untitled by Mariam Sitchinava
Cloud Gallery Wall: @poshpedlar
28.
Humbled by love and light.
Untitled Part VIII, Cy Twombly
https://www.wikiart.org/en/cy-twombly/untitled-part-viii
Portrait of Marie-Thérèse Walter with Garland (1937) by Pablo Picasso
https://www.instagram.com/p/BqWywPbAPNt/
Woman in the Snow
It's so easy to laugh, It's so easy to hate, It takes strength to be gentle and kind.
The Smiths, I Know It’s Over