-Coral-

j’ai versé

[petriii-deactivated20260116-dea]

[notre-arme]

i love his gentle embraces like so.

[c0ssette]

Juliana and her husband Edward Noel, Lord and Lady Campden.

[genecurrankelly]

The Phantom of the Opera (1925)

[unbotheredmuse]

[klassizismus]

Detail: Ixion Chained in Tartarus, 1824, by Alexandre Denis Abel de Pujol (French, 1785-1861)

[xshayarsha]

“… you’re the dawning of madness, the dawning of hell, the dawning of paradise,”

— Mahmoud Darwish, from Memory for Forgetfulness: August, Beirut, 1982.

[wispsofsilk]

nina ricci fall rtw 2016

[poeticque]

Wine isn’t strong enough. It’s blood I want.

Henry Miller; A Literate Passion, the Letters of Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller

[namasteybollywood]

Fitoor (2016)

[luthienne]

namasteybollywood: Fitoor (2016)

[lottereinigerforever]

La chute de la maison Usher

[memoryslandscape-deactivated202]

If you are not the free person you want to be you must find a place to tell the truth about that. To tell how things go for you. Candor is like a skein being produced inside the belly day after day, it has to get itself woven out somewhere. You could whisper down a well. You could write a letter and keep it in a drawer. You could inscribe a curse on a ribbon of lead and bury it in the ground to lie unread for thousands of years. The point is not to find a reader, the point is the telling itself. Consider a person standing alone in a room. The house is silent. She is looking down at a piece of paper. Nothing else exists. All her veins go down into this paper. She takes her pen and writes on it some marks no one else will ever see, she bestows on it a kind of surplus, she tops it off with a gesture as private and accurate as her own name.

Anne Carson, from section “Could 1” of “Candor,” BOMB Magazine (no. 116, Summer 2011)

[memoryslandscape-deactivated202]

Worth a reblog

[russia-cartoon]

[notre-arme]

i feel good and thankful and calm as of late.

[darklingpearl]

Most far, most near, your arms are darkness, holding me,

so I lan back, lipread the heavens talking on in light,

syllabic stars. I see, at last, they pray at us.

——Carol Ann Duffy, New Year

[detailedart]

*Medieval celestial scenes* - 30.05.2020 3:22PM GMT-4

[anadventurousdutchflower]

[artofthedarkages]

139r, Gospels, Cotton MS Nero D IV, British Library

[afadthatlastsforever]

“And when we kissed one another for the first time I could swear I heard our souls whisper ever so quietly, ‘Welcome home.’”

— Beau Taplin || Welcome home.

[notre-arme]

This reminds me of a beloved memory.

Mr. Raines and I met on one (rainy) March day. We spent a month getting to know one another over the phone before then. Endless conversations, stories, photos and videos of each other were sent. What was missing was the physical. Walking up to each other; seeing one another for the first time, he grabbed my face and kissed me, as the downpour melted between the collision of our lips. He took me into his home and we settled. I laid down on his bed and dissected his atmosphere. A space I imagined up for weeks before hand. He was staring at me. He grabbed a hold of my hand and was silent. “I can feel your sensitivity” he said, as he held me closer. This meant so much. For someone who feels as deeply as I do (all of the damn time) for my energy to be noticed and felt, and even welcomed/ held safe, it made me teary. Looking back, I’m not sure I’ve come across another soul as vulnerable as he was with me, and I, him. He eventually scooped me up and we bled our faces together aquainting tastes. After awhile we slowed and I backed away to look at him. His eyes looked welled. I asked, “What does kissing me feel like?”

“Home” he replied.