[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“He who tears his heart out of his breast at night reaches for the rose.”

— Paul Celan, tr. by Beth Bjorklung, from “Eyes: Shining with Rain,”

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

Softly the roses of your blood leave / death drenched through and through.

Else Lasker-Schüler, tr. by Brooks Haxton, from My Blue Piano; “Senna Hoy,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

[vesselsofmercy]

“some sweet song

in honey voice

piercing breezes

wet with dew”

– Sappho, tr. by Anne Carson from if Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho

[theclassicsreader]

O sad one. Some heavy god has put more pain on you than any other human being.

Euripides, Hekabe (trans. by Anne Carson)

[last-picture-show]

Viktor Kolar, From the Series Ostrava, 1964

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

My own mind I suppose claws me. Analysed: headache; guilt; remorse…Is it that I lack will?How can I get sensible? How to live it over? I mind so much.

Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry featured in The Complete Works of Virginia Woolf; Selected Diaries. (via mirroir)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

Gardening. No hope for the future.

Franz Kafka, from a diary entry featured in Diaries, 1910 -1923 (via mirroir)

[sevastopoltales-deactivated2021]

Her flesh was a garden of mourning.

Hélène Cixous, Inside, pg.10 (Schocken Books, New York / 1986). Translated by Carol Barko. (via eveninglesbian)

[rudygodinez]

Unknown Photographer, Photo of Sun at 15 Minute Intervals, White Horse, Canada, (1933)

[existential-celestial]

I go a wintry way, for love that smiled in April is false to me in May.

Sara Teasdale, May (via mirroir)

[tunguska-rdm-deactivated2022101]

Notturno

Tunguska.RdM

LensCulture /// ArtLimited /// ND Magazine

[watchoutforintellect]

The bed itself is an operating table where my dreams slice me to pieces.

Anne Sexton, from “The Lost Lie” featured in The Complete Poems (via watchoutforintellect)

[blog-n-white]

#35mm #film @kiwikan 🌹

[lauramakabresku]

[dark-forest-heart-deactivated20]

Eat My Heart  © Lia Cruz | Instagram

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

People. People. Endless noise. And I am so tired. And I would like to sleep under trees; red ones, blue ones, swirling passionate ones.

Fyodor Dostoevsky, from Complete Prose Collection; “The Brothers Karamazov,” (via oiseauperdu)

[vernacularvisions-deactivated20]