“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)
$LAYYYTER
Cosimo Galluzzi
Claire Keane
YOU ARE THE REASON

JVL
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

oozey mess

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styofa doing anything

JBB: An Artblog!

Janaina Medeiros
Cosmic Funnies
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titsay

if i look back, i am lost
Stranger Things
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda

izzy's playlists!
TVSTRANGERTHINGS

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
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@inevertalkthismuch
“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)
you like the city in the daytime
i like the city in the nighttime
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)
"What happens when people open their hearts?"
"They get better."
— Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood
potatoes and molasses
artist: @clovehearts
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.
To Autumn
The wind was seeded with Time.
– Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes
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 🤍🌿
–Mary Oliver
“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
No one gets ink stains like yours just out of a desire for money. LITTLE WOMEN (2019) DIR. GRETA GERWIG
John Keats, Meg Merrilies
“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
Lord Byron — To the Countess of Blessington
Handwritten last stanza of The Raven, a poem by Edgar Allan Poe.