i [p] c

eli / student / writer

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

I thought the blood was dripping from my own heart.

Sirkka Turkka, tr. by Herbert Lomas, from Contemporary Finnish Poetry: “A Dog Called Julia,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

[cuprikorn]

10-07 by nenija on Flickr.

[arunaea]

222 inhabitants by ivvy million on Flickr.

[arunaea]

glasgow IV (by Anette Helene)

[bhfilm]

Migrants in Sarajevo trying to warm up around The Eternal flame, December, 2019

35mm

[ecrituria]

How will the last generation know it is the last generation?

Jenny Offill, Weather (via ecrituria)

[artsatellite]

Joanne Leonard, Another Morning, 1971

[lifeinpoetry]

          but i’m never gonna be able to say it enough: memories

                          are only correct or incorrect              as we believe them to be.  

i will play       the swan, isolated and mysterious. let’s hope                                       i don’t end up in tears.

— Quinn Lui, from “THINGS YOU SAID IN THE SEASONAL CYCLE WHEN WE WERE BOTH IN LOVE,” published in Moonchild Magazine

[lonelywoodland]

photo by pau-lin on Flickr.

[invisible-people-cities]

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Michelle Ruiz-Pellachini (@mmbelle) on Oct 10, 2019 at 2:53pm PDT

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“The air of October is sweet and cold as the wine of apples,”

— Edgar Lee Masters, from Songs & Satires (1916); “Johnny Appleseed,”

[invisible-people-cities]

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Sara Hagale (@shagey_) on Oct 7, 2019 at 4:34pm PDT

[fifty-moons]

e.e. cummings

[themaninthegreenshirt]

John Betjeman Goes by Train: King’s Lynn to Hunstanton

[quotespile]

He could do only one thing at a time. If he held her, he couldn’t kiss her. If he kissed her, he couldn’t see her. If he saw her, he couldn’t feel her.

Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things (via quotespile)

[attaches]

untitled. by madhjamaka on Flickr.

[quotespile]

“We know that there is no help for us but from one another, that no hand will save us if we do not reach out our hand. And the hand that you reach out is empty, as mine is. You have nothing. You possess nothing. You own nothing. You are free. All you have is what you are, and what you give.”

— Ursula K. Le Guin, The Dispossessed