Grande Sunset, Heating Tops & Chroma Glow by Greg Boratyn

JBB: An Artblog!
No title available

Kaledo Art
we're not kids anymore.

ellievsbear
Cosimo Galluzzi
Sade Olutola

shark vs the universe
hello vonnie
NASA
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
todays bird
Three Goblin Art
will byers stan first human second
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
🪼

Love Begins

#extradirty
noise dept.
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
seen from Chile
seen from Spain
seen from Germany
seen from Brazil
seen from T1

seen from Netherlands

seen from United States

seen from Spain

seen from United States
seen from Brazil

seen from Brazil
seen from United States

seen from Brazil
seen from Malaysia
seen from Iraq
seen from Iraq

seen from Belarus

seen from United States
seen from Italy

seen from United States
@sphereofwords-blog
Grande Sunset, Heating Tops & Chroma Glow by Greg Boratyn
to learn who rules over you, simply find out who you are not allowed to criticize.
Voltaire
genius necessarily is intolerant of fetters.
George Eliot, Middlemach
27 April. Incapable of living with people, of speaking. Complete immersion in myself, thinking of myself. Apathetic, witless, fearful. I have nothing to say to anyone—never.
Franz Kafka, Diaries (via kafkas-diaries)
a writer begins a book. a reader finishes it
Samuel Jhonson
emily brontë
“I cannot express it; but surely you and everybody have a notion that there is or should be an existence of yours beyond you. What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained here? My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff's miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it. My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.” ----Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights
herta muller
do you have a handkerchief was the question my mother asked me every morning, standing by the gate to our house, before I went out onto the street. I didn’t have a handkerchief. And because I didn’t, I would go back inside and get one. I never had a handkerchief because I would always wait for her question. The handkerchief was proof that my mother was looking after me in the morning. For the rest of the day I was on my own.Â
The question do you have a handkerchief was an indirect display of affection. Anything more direct would have been embarrassing and not something the farmers practiced. Love disguised itself as a question. That was the only way it could be spoken: matter-of-factly, in the tone of a command, or the deft maneuvers used for work. The brusqueness of the voice even emphasized the tenderness. Every morning I went to the gate once without a handkerchief and a second time with a handkerchief. Only then would I go out onto the street, as if having the handkerchief meant having my mother there, too.
love loves to love love
James Joyce
but if you had a lady as your companion, I could put you both under the care of a ciceron, and we could thus achieve two purposes in the same space of time
George Eliot, Middlemarch