the mysterious vanishing

sweet-voiced messenger of spring

[won-der-land89]

[myloveisfree-deactivated2024020]

Di Petsa

[sss]

[cocaineandmoney]

$$

[pierrot-lunaire--x-deactivated2]

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

Lola Ridge, from To the Many; Collected Poems of Lola Ridge; “Ghetto,”

[alicedeadacc]

[bruised-sugar]

The Best

[mizar113]

[60s-heartshaped-chevrolet]

[won-der-land89]

[gatabella]

Jane Fonda by Peter Basch, 1950s

[seaymph]

“I have done nothing all summer but wait for myself to be myself again —”

— Georgia O’Keeffe, in a letter to Russel Vernon Hunter, from Georgia O’Keeffe: Art and Letters (via luthienne)

[die-rosastrasse]

Hans Zatzka

Austrian, 1859-1945

Water nymphs (details)

[genterie]

[somnolentdesolation]

soft light streams through the haze moments stealing moments voices fade in the distance suspend the world in profound silence

i lose myself in the drift ethereal reflections become my horizons beyond all sight i sense your presence as absent as ever, as unreachable as the coldest star and i float above the world between two eternities enveloped by the vast all-consuming an infinity within each ephemeral fading a shadow of what never was

[moncrieff-deactivated20180121]

i’m actually the ghost of a tormented poet in love with melancholy who sits on patches of moss in the moors sorry you had to find out this way

[antigonick]

“I liked the idea of living in a city — any city, especially a strange one — liked the thought of traffic and crowds, of working in a bookstore, waiting tables in a coffee shop, who knew what kind of solitary life I might slip into? Meals alone, walking the dogs in the evenings; and nobody knowing who I was.”

— Donna Tartt, The Secret History