[sagewraith]

The world is full of painful stories. Sometimes it seems as though there aren't any other kind, and yet I found myself thinking how beautiful that glint of water was through the trees.

Parable of the Sower, Octavia Butler

[metamorphesque]

'things there are no words for, but should be', tatheve simonyan

[flowerytale]

Sylvia Plath, from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (January 20, 1959) Virginia Woolf’s cat Sappho, from the Monk’s House photograph album (1947)

[les-fleur]

La Collectionneuse (1967, dir. Eric Rohme)

[feral-ballad]

Carrie Fountain, from Burn Lake; “Want”

[apocryphics]

[memoryslandscape-deactivated202]

“I have folded myself forward and back again to find you. Bent diagonal and straight, till I am nearly torn apart. I have raised up a mountain of mourning, furrowed a valley of sadness, pleated my cries in repeated corrugations, reversed and pleated again, fashioned whole pockets of lamentation, then tucked myself into them, turned myself inside out, crimped my pain into sharp points. And still no boat, nor goldfish, no paper crane, no likeness of you. All I want now is to undo myself, lay me flat again, like a sheet on a bed of healing, smooth out the creases of my grief, and sleep.”

— Jeanne Emmons, “The Origami of Grief,” River Styx (no. 100, May 2018

[weltenwellen]

Taking Care  Callista Buchen

[petaltexturedskies]

Virginia Woolf, from a letter to Vita Sackville-West, wr. c. February 1926

[aux-amours-diluviennes]

“Because the world is so full of death and horror, I try again and again to console my heart and pick the flowers that grow in the midst of hell.”

— Hermann Hesse, Narcissus and Goldmund  (via thequotejournals)

[toiich]

The Cat Lady (1969), dir. Tom Chomont

[toiich]

Anne Sexton, The Truth the Dead Know

[paper-fairy]

Tomasz Jedrowski, Swimming in the Dark — Chapter 2

[mournfulroses]

Simone de Beauvoir, from a letter to Nelson Algren, featured in "A Transatlantic Love Affair,"

[neradatura]

[sentimentalbeing2001]

The lily in the valley will wither. The flowers in the forest will decay. But this friendship will last forever, when all other things fade away.

March 4, 1885.

From a beautiful notebook I bought in the flea

[terrorignitis]

Jean-Paul Sartre, Intimacy