hello vonnie
ojovivo
noise dept.
Product Placement
RMH
cherry valley forever
if i look back, i am lost
Not today Justin
🪼
titsay
wallacepolsom
No title available
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
izzy's playlists!
$LAYYYTER
occasionally subtle
Origami Around
Kaledo Art
will byers stan first human second
Keni
seen from United States
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@respirelejasmin
french, but here I speak english almost exclusively. she/her.
main tags : love lexicon (also love as worship and aimer = dévorer) ; chiffons for fashion ; cher journal for personal posts ; violettes for wlw/sapphic stuff
polar exploration/sad boats/fandom blog: @violenceviolette
instagram / spotify / letterboxd / storygraph
It is an uneasy lot at best, to be what we call highly taught and yet not to enjoy: to be present at this great spectacle of life and never to be liberated from a small hungry shivering self - never to be fully possessed by the glory we behold, never to have our consciousness rapturously transformed into the vividness of a thought, the ardour of a passion, the energy of an action, but always to be scholarly and uninspired, ambitious and timid, scrupulous and dim-sighted.
George Eliot | Middlemarch
Margaret Rice Oxley ~ When You Do Dance I Wish You A Wave O’ the Sea ~ via
how I longed to extend my trembling fingers to the outer edges of her heart
Han Kang, Human acts
Johanna Spyri, Heidi
Last Train Home, Szetendre, Budapest
Francesco Saverio Lopazio
Happy was she who could believe without seeing, who was at one with the duration and continuity of life. Happy was she who was in the room, who had the freedom of the city in everything that she touched or came in contact with, a fish swimming downstream, a leaf on a tree, a cloud in the sky, an image in a poem.
Julio Cortazar, Hopscotch
"horizon books on roosevelt, seattle" (2005), j brew
recital
instagram | photos are my own, reblogs fine, do not repost/reuse
i spent so long in a lover’s quarrel with my flesh, the peace seems overcautious.
Kaveh Akbar, Calling A Wolf A Wolf
Henry Patrick Raleigh (1880-1944)
The places we are born come back. They disguise themselves as migraines, stomach aches, insomnia. They are the way we sometimes wake falling, fumbling for the bed-side lamp, certain everything we’ve built has gone in the night. We become strangers to the places we are born. They would not recognise us but we will always recognise them. They are marrow to us; they are bred into us. If we were turned inside out there would be maps cut into the wrong side of our skin. Just so we could find our way back. Except, cut wrong side into my skin are not canals and train tracks and a boat, but always: you.
— Everything Under, Daisy Johnson
the hymn of ithilien, tathev simonyan
“Time is a burst fruit,
evident
unable to be pieced together
in a way that keeps hands clean.
You know something of this mess
you who stitch together realm and circumstance
and expect your suture to hold.”
— Matthew Shenoda, from “Scribes,” Poetry (April 2026)
