PBJ

Main Blog: @moodyinapinkbow Astrology Blog: @pinkbowastrology

[crucifiedlovers]

If gentleness can be brutish, cruelty can sometimes be so closely wound in with sensitivity and gentleness that it is hard to know which is what. 

Mary Gaitskill, Lost Cat

[crucifiedlovers]

“Desire is about vanishing. You dream of a bowl of cherries and next day receive a letter written in red juice.”

— Anne Carson, Norma Jeane Baker of Troy

[petaltexturedskies]

Like Cinderella, I was enchanted. Christmas lights unbelievable, enormous four-ton tree blazing in Rockefeller Center, skaters waltzing and twirling, silver windows for window-shopping...all exotic and alive, wind-in-hair, frost and wine.

Sylvia Plath in a letter to Jon Rosenthal, wr. c. Christmas 1954

[psikonauti]

Annie Swynnerton (British,1844-1933)

Glow Worm, 1900

Oil on canvas

[shisasan]

“Evening: to walk into my house is to walk into dawn, into color, into music, into perfume, into magic, into harmony.”

— Anaïs Nin, from a diary entry featured in The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. 3: 1939-1944

[pinkbowjournal]

I am no more than a shell where the sea-swell goes on roaring.

Marina Tsvetaeva.

[pinkbowjournal]

You're ringed by fire. Its flashes delight me too. I am not frightened, beneath your tender eyelashes, of summer lightning.

Afanasy Fet, Translated by Robert Chandler.

[pinkbowjournal]

Across hundreds of summers, I send you my kiss.

Marina Tsvetaeva, To Osip Mandelstam.

[pinkbowjournal]

Ski Tracks by Gustaf Fjæstad.

[pinkbowjournal]

Tenderly treading through snow-swirls, Hung with threads of snow-pearls,

Alexander Blok, The Twelve.

[pinkbowjournal]

Forough Farrokhzad, Let Us Believe in the Beginning of the Cold Season.

[pinkbowjournal]

Now all the trees asleep in the garden slip out of their bark and through thousands of pores the soil inhales the dizzy particles of the moon. Forouh Farrokhzad, Let Us Believe in the Beginning of the Cold Season.

[pinkbowjournal]

She stood on the terrace shaking the wet honeysuckle over her face, breathing its perfume, a creature momentarily compounded of dew and air and fragrance.

Elspeth Barker, O Caledonia.

[pinkbowjournal]

I go out on the verandah and run my fingers across the taut skin of the night.

[pinkbowjournal]

Something dreamy and dark, with distortion. Something I could close my eyes and drown in beautifully.

Mona Awad, Rouge.

[pinkbowjournal]

Where do I come from? Where do I come from? That I reek of the smell of night?

Forough Farrokhzad, Let us Believe in the Beginning of the Cold Season.

[pinkbowjournal]

With eyes like the sky, dripping their dark silks.

Mona Awad, Rouge.