I never have taken a Peach in my Hand, so late in the Year @moralwounds - Tumblr Blog

He was an entity unto himself. His thought processes, his music, his verbalizations of things, his body language, his clothes. He was unique, he didn’t follow a pattern at all. – Linda Keith

#jimi hendrix

1softy

https://www.instagram.com/p/BWJ0ZIxAudI/

#interiors #window

random-brushstrokes

Josef Arpád von Koppay (Hungarian, 1859–1927) - Empress Elisabeth of Austria on the steps of the Achilleion

#art

claypigeonpottery

both sold

ribbit

#things

julianplum

🐟🐟🌕🐟🐟🐟🐟 // swallowtail shiners // gouache on hot press paper

#art

zedtron774

Kawanabe Kyosai, White Heron in the Rain, colour woodblock print, Japan, 1880

#art

thunderstruck9

Freya Douglas-Morris (British, 1980), Snowdrops, 2024. Oil on canvas, 185 x 165 cm.

#art

huariqueje

Interior in orange and diffuse front light - Nicola Nannini

Italian,b.1972-

oil on canvas , 100 x 100 cm.

#art

weepingwidar

Mikalojus Konstantinas Čiurlionis (Lithuanian, 1875-1911) - The Thought (1904)

#art

dailyhudsonwilliams

via ofbecomingus

#hudson williams

ashstfu

i feel totally normal about this and the scope of my desire is completely average

#poetry

mangodebango

Angela Davis, Santa Clara County Jail, California, 27th December, 1971.

#angela davis

apoemaday

Night Walk

by Franz Wright

The all-night convenience store’s empty and no one is behind the counter. You open and shut the glass door a few times causing a bell to go off, but no one appears. You only came to buy a pack of cigarettes, maybe a copy of yesterday’s newspaper— finally you take one and leave thirty-five cents in its place. It is freezing, but it is a good thing to step outside again: you can feel less alone in the night, with lights on here and there between the dark buildings and trees. Your own among them, somewhere. There must be thousands of people in this city who are dying to welcome you into their small bolted rooms, to sit you down and tell you what has happened to their lives. And the night smells like snow. Walking home for a moment you almost believe you could start again. And an intense love rushes to your heart, and hope. It’s unendurable, unendurable.

#poetry