Sin título

[metamorphesque]

― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Gentle Spirit

[conscious-alignment-deactivated]

[toshihiko-okuya]

study #043 – Toshihiko Okuya

[toshihiko-okuya]

190818 – Toshihiko Okuya

[sweatermuppet]

richard siken, the language of birds / rae armantrout, prayers

[Text ID: The fear: that nothing survives. The greater fear : that something does.

The fear / that all this will end. / The Fear / that it won't. /End ID]

[ejacutastic]

honestly will never forget this older client we had who told me how her life had gotten so much better with time and age and asked how old I was and when I told her I was 28, she said I was just a baby and reassured me I had so much time ahead of me and how much better it'll get as I grow into my life. There was such an indescribable amount of love and hope in that single interaction I think I'll hold it with me forever.

[aqua-regia009]

Samuel Taylor Coleridge poem The Rime of the Ancient Mariner Illustrated by Gustave Doré (French, 1832-1883)

[flowerytale]

Winter (details), attributed to Anne Vallayer-Coster, 18th century

[flowerytale]

Florence Welch, photographed by Lillie Eiger

[aqua-regia009]

Roman Ruins in Schonbrunn, 1891 - oil on canvas. — Carl Moll (Austrian, 1861-1945)

[ex0skeletal-undead]

Edge of Darkness by Ben J

This artist on Instagram

[weepingwidar]

Edith Vaucamps (Belgian, ca. 1860-1930) - Bruges by Night (ca. 1900)

[thunderstruck9]

Edith Vaucamps (Belgian, 1879-after 1935), Bruges la nuit [Bruges at Night], c.1900. Oil on canvas, 60 x 50.5 cm.

[gacougnol]

Nikolay Andreyev

Pair and Much Water

nd

[tunisian]

it hurts to love you because you dont love me back

mark strand / colette lush / edward m. forster / christian kuria / salma deera / flannery o’connor / blythe baird / ijeoma umebinyuo / richard siken / ib vyache / blythe baird

[voodooya]

🖤. Art by Dusty Ray

[ohstarstuff]

This is Pluto as never seen before in human history.

[la-chica-perdida-en-el-cosmos]

En las tardes y noches melancólicas donde te invade un sentimiento de surrealismo, donde no crees en nada ni en nadie, nisiquiera en ti mismo, ¿que es lo que se hace? No se puede ni llorar ni entrever en hojas de papel alguna sensación que pueda dar luz a las sombras invadiendo tu pensamiento. Incluso los sueños se intoxican de incertidumbre y miedo, ¿pero miedo a qué? ¿A la vida?, ¿a la gente? miedo al miedo tal vez. Hace frío y nadie viene, y nada acontece, y nada te conmueve; estás existiendo, siendo tan consiente de tu existencia que duele. Te preguntas si toda la vida se sentirá así.

Divagaciones de una noche melancólica

- @la-chica-perdida-en-el-cosmos