alize

i just need to figure out a way of growing up without becoming a boring adult

[soracities]

“the smell of rain and wet trees — the smell of the last days of November.”

— Mihail Sebastian, For Two Thousand Years (trans. Philip Ó Ceallaigh)

[inevertalkthismuch]

you like the city in the daytime

i like the city in the nighttime 

[a-quiet-green-agreement]

We stood looking up at the moon and trying to see the fairies there in the middle of the dark sea and we tried to hear them singing their poems.

– Robert Olen Butler, from “Mid-Autumn,” A Good Scent from a Strange Mountain: Stories (Penguin, 1993)

[city0fstars]

"What happens when people open their hearts?"

"They get better."

— Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

[inevertalkthismuch]

potatoes and molasses

artist: @clovehearts

[fromtheabundance]

To Autumn

BY JOHN KEATS

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,   Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless   With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,   And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;      To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells   With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease,      For summer has o'er-brimm’d their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?   Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,   Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,   Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook      Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep   Steady thy laden head across a brook;   Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,      Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?   Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,   And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn   Among the river sallows, borne aloft      Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;   Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft   The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;      And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

[inevertalkthismuch]

To Autumn

[a-quiet-green-agreement]

The wind was seeded with Time.

– Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes

[alwaysbeenjessica]

wednesday july 1 2020

i cannot believe it’s july! one of my goals is to finish this book, hopefully i can by the end of the week. i wish nothing but success and happiness for whoever is reading this 🤍🌿

[a-quiet-green-agreement]

–Mary Oliver

[heartsnmagic]

[stars-hollow-loves]

[shisasan]

“To romanticize the world is to make us aware of the magic, mystery and wonder of the world; it is to educate the senses to see the ordinary as extraordinary, the familiar as strange, the mundane as sacred, the finite as infinite.”

— Novalis

[michonnegrimes]

No one gets ink stains like yours just out of a desire for money.          LITTLE WOMEN (2019) DIR. GRETA GERWIG

[saintweaver]

John Keats, Meg Merrilies

[luckylluminati]

“Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.”

— Sylvia Plath

[flowerytale]

Lord Byron — To the Countess of Blessington

[mortisia]

[bookshavepores]

Handwritten last stanza of The Raven, a poem by Edgar Allan Poe.