we're not kids anymore.

if i look back, i am lost
Today's Document

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda

Andulka
Jules of Nature

pixel skylines
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

oozey mess
Cosmic Funnies
NASA

izzy's playlists!
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
h
YOU ARE THE REASON
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
almost home

roma★
sheepfilms

seen from Israel

seen from Türkiye
seen from Japan

seen from United States

seen from Argentina
seen from Switzerland
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United Kingdom
seen from Germany
seen from United States
@inwrittenlight
Hiromu Kira, The Thinker, c. 1930
artdaily.org
Summer Literary Sensations 🌊
It gets misty, the birds sound loud, it smells of irises and then it thunders. I love such summer storms.
Katherine Mansfield, from a letter written c. July 1921
I enjoy breakfast, the morning light on a church steeple, or on a modern building which looks Grecian against the sky. The summer glow, and my ability to not hear trivial conversation. A sense of space, serenity, and stylization.
Anaïs Nin, from a diary entry c. June 1933
The first summer was pure happiness. I was experiencing another human being, he was experiencing me, and we didn’t need to talk about it. I was barefoot in the sand so fine it was as if it breathed beneath my feet. I never wondered what might come of our relationship. It was as if I were living within soft walls of sunlight and desire and happiness. No summer since has ever been like that. Not like that.
Liv Ullmann, from Liv & Ingmar (2012)
Summer stars burn stories on the sky.
Marilyn Hacker, from “Love, Death & The Changing of the Seasons,”
The rain falling. Summer rain on the earth. Night rain. The darkness and warmth and flood of passion. Tonight the earth is loved – loved and possessed.
James Joyce, from “Exiles; A Play in Three Acts,”
Try sitting at a typewriter one calm summer evening at a table by a window in the country, try pretending your time does not exist, that you are simply you, that the imagination simply strays like a great moth, unintentional, try telling yourself you are not accountable to the life of your tribe, the breath of your planet.
Adrienne Rich, from “North American Time,”
Whomever I love, I love better in winter than in summer.
Friedrich Nietzsche, from “Thus Spoke Zarathustra,”
I began to talk. I talked about summer, and about time. The pleasures of eating, the terrors of the night. About this cup we call a life. About happiness. And how good it feels, the heat of the sun between the shoulder blades.
Mary Oliver, from New & Selected Poems
I wasted my summer in destructive restlessness, trying to find a way to be comfortable in my life and my skin. Very stupid. I hope you’ll avoid that. Go out. Get some proper hold of your moods. Relax.
Martha Gellhorn, from a letter written c. August 1953
I rush toward you in the summer twilight, not in the real world, but in the buried one where you are waiting,
Louise Gluck, from Poems: 1962-2012
A child playing - a summer evening - doors will open and shut, will keep opening and shutting, through which I see sights that make me weep. For they cannot be imparted. Hence our loneliness; hence our desolation. I turn to that spot in my mind and find it empty. My own infirmities oppress me.
Virginia Woolf, from “The Waves,” c. 1931
The remarkable light of the summer evening together with the nocturnal emptiness of the bridge.
Franz Kafka, from a diary entry featured in “Diaries,”
I hate how summer kills me when it appears even briefly.
Arthur Rimbaud, from a letter written c. 1872
Whatever I looked at was alive, everything had a voice, but I never found out whether you were a friend, an enemy, was it winter, summer? Smoke, singing, midnight heat. I wrote thousands of lines. Not one told me.
Anna Akhmatova, from “Fragment, 1959,”
“I am here, faithful to the echo of your voice: silent, unexpressed.”
— Victor Segalen, tr. by Timothy Billings, from “Faithful Betrayal,”
“Whatever we didn’t say out loud- both of us knew.”
— Ming D. Liu
“I went inside my heart to see how it was. Something there makes me hear the whole world weeping.”
— Rumi (via wordsnquotes)
“imagine meeting someone who wanted to learn your past not to punish you, but to learn how you needed to be loved. Be inspired by people who don’t run away when they locate the darkness in you; who instead lean in & ask where the darkness stems from & how they can love you in the midst of it.”
“I already know the storm, and I am as troubled as the sea.”
— Rainer Maria Rilke, tr. by Robert Bly, from “Sense of Something Coming,”
12/30/17 // i promise you; my heart is made of gold
“Maybe one night when we collapse onto your bed at four in the morning, we can listen to heartbeats and laughter instead of laying there in silence until one of us is ready to open up. I understand that it takes time to tell our stories but I find myself excited to hear yours and vulnerable enough to want to share mine. I want to talk about your hands and your eyes when you undress me, the sound that slips your mouth when our skin collides, and the way your fingers slip between the spaces I try to hide. I think we should open the boxes we hide beneath the bed and the letters never sent. Tell me about that one time your mother had to leave the light on after a nightmare because I may need to you keep the candle burning at night. And for all those old photographs standing on your bookshelf - I want to know the time and place behind them all, especially the black and white one that made your eyes a little empty when I asked who it was. I want to talk about what it was that ate you up and spit you out for you are tough, but anyone can easily make a heart as soft as yours break if they really wanted to. Your hands may be rough but your soul is fragile, and so, I want to listen to it talk about the fairy tale endings that somehow do exist in your mind and how some day, you will find one. Maybe the next time we collapse onto your bed at four in the morning, we will be trying to shut one another up so we would actually be able to fall asleep.”
— Ming D. Liu, I Want to Talk About Your Hands
“All my heart became a tear, All my soul became a tower,”
— Edna St. Vincent Millay, from The Collected Poems; “The Blue-Flag in the Bog,”
01/13/18 // you taught me the courage of stars before you left; how light carries on endlessly, even after death
A Story A Day #289 // 10-18-14 by Ming D. Liu