Son of the White Mare / Fehérlófia (1981) dir. Marcell Jankovics
trying on a metaphor

roma★
Stranger Things
will byers stan first human second
tumblr dot com
DEAR READER
Monterey Bay Aquarium

if i look back, i am lost

Origami Around
sheepfilms
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸

oozey mess

JVL
taylor price
almost home

祝日 / Permanent Vacation

tannertan36

shark vs the universe
Misplaced Lens Cap
Mike Driver
seen from United States

seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Canada

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from Türkiye

seen from Malaysia

seen from Singapore
seen from Germany
seen from Singapore

seen from Saudi Arabia

seen from United States
seen from Gibraltar

seen from Canada
@thatislandwillnotbeperfect
Son of the White Mare / Fehérlófia (1981) dir. Marcell Jankovics
ph Inessa Dolinskaia
From Wunderland Series
©Philomena Famulok
Evening mood
We are all made of stars….
Sketches by Gustav Gaudernack, 1910
Luis Caballero (Colombian, 1943-1995), Untitled, 1987. Charcoal and sanguine on canvasboard, 148.6 x 113.9 cm.
Total solar eclipse in Norway
Grape Earrings at Yuhan Wang’s MA Central Saint Martins graduate collection
Happy Pam
Le Petit écho de la mode, no. 10, vol. 10, 11 mars 1888, Paris. 3. Papillons en tapisserie. Brun moyen, foncé, très foncé. Jaune très clair, clair, moyen, foncé, très foncé. Rouge moyen, foncé, très foncé. Bleu clair, moyen, foncé. Beige très clair, clair, foncé. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney
~ Gustave Jean Jacquet, Wistful Thoughts (c.1890) (detail)
via wikimedia commons
The Kissing Knife by Chloé Arrouy
steel sculptural object
CATVISU WRAP SKIRT
The End of Girlhood
by Traci Brimhall
What else can I say? The book opened like a future or a grave. I chose a wilder way through the woods, stalked by a mosquito whining for my heat. I chose a stranger’s mouth because it rhymed with love, because it finished me off like a sentence. My throat like a hummingbird’s, mistaken for a jewel. The kiss stuffing my mouth with smoke. There was a river, a thralling, how I trembled against my own hand. Of course what I remember most are the dangers of descent — gypsum flowers making a forest of the cave, its stones aching open like hands to receive the gifts—candles, photos, teacups, my torn hood. The spring dripped its steady syllables. Arise, arise. I was still myself after, but a new grief opened inside me like an umbrella. Gentle shield. Generous shadow. My knowledge made me soft and unmerciful. All three heads of the dog turned towards the sound of its name.
Late Novena, Traci Brimhall