My mind palace is kinda weird.

"I trust people. I guess I'm naive. I trust them, and they're assholes. That's what I've learned." - Brandon Flowers

[cigarettesaaftersex]

[mysterium-solis]

Theseus and Ariadne at the Cretan Labyrinth by Baccio Baldini (c. 1460-70)

[wordsforyoungmen]

[1five1two]

'Sleeping Woman'. Oskar Kokoschka. 1917.

[books0977]

Pleasant Dreams (1852). Henry Nelson O’Neil (1817-1880).

O'Neil (1817-1880) was a leading Victorian painter of historical scenes. He worked in a highly detailed and realistic style.

O'Neil studied art at the Royal Academy schools from 1836. He was a founder member of ‘The Clique’, a group of young artists who were dissatisfied with the restrictions of the Royal Academy and wanted to bring a new realism and emotional intensity to their work.

[bebs-art-gallery]

Night in the Summer (1926)

— by Georg Janny

[rubypomegranates]

“As I read, I began to understand that all the great works wrangled with big questions, important questions: our place in the world, the value of our experience, the fairness and meaning of our suffering, our quest for love and belonging.

Phuc Tran “Sigh, Gone: A Misfit's Memoir of Great Books, Punk Rock, and the Fight to Fit In”

[halflifesk666]

[brandonlees]

He is not proud. I was wrong, I was entirely wrong about him. You don't know him, Papa. If I told you what he's really like, what he's done.

PRIDE & PREJUDICE 2005, dir. Joe Wright

[ninka66-deactivated20250901]

Dans la maison aux portes muettes,

vivent les ombres, les voix discrètes,

Des souvenirs aux gestes flous,

Des pas de brume, des silences fous.

Une fillette au cœur de cendre

Cherchait la clé pour tout comprendre,

Ses mains d’étoiles, ses yeux d’hiver,

Cueillaient la nuit sans en avoir l’air.

Un paravent de fleurs fanées

Masquait l’écho d’années troublées,

Mais sous le lit, dans les tiroirs,

Dormaient les cris, l’ancien miroir.

Un jour pourtant, la lampe danse,

Et l’âme prend une autre chance,

Elle voit clair, sans s’effrayer,

Même si tout vient vaciller.

Le ventre parle, les larmes coulent,

Le corps en tremble, la mémoire roule…

Mais dans ce chaos tout en creux,

Nait une force, un feu soyeux.

Elle avance lente, presque nue,

Dans un jardin d’herbes inconnues,

Où l’air est lourd, mais doux parfois,

Et chaque souffle devient une loi.

On dit qu’elle rêve ou qu’elle imagine,

Mais c’est sa peau qui dessine

Un sentier neuf, un chant discret,

Où l’on guérit sans oublier.

[vexheart]

[deviika]

Unknown // Suzanne Scanlon

[lucy-the-wyrm]

They ignored the tears that rolled down her cheeks. Pouring everything they had left into each other. Starved for a touch that was real and tangible. Was love meant to be a choice? Was it always supposed to be out of her hands? A freewill from a height far beyond what mortal eyes could see.

Songs of the Wicked - C. A. Farran

[poetryforall]

[depsidase]

[feral-ballad]

Joy Sullivan, from Instructions for Traveling West: Poems; “Instructions for Traveling West”

[Text ID: “you’re homesick / for all the lives / you’re not living.”]

[becherdireinen]

the universe has a plan for you, even if you can't see it yet.