We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time.
T.S. Eliot, “Little Gidding”
i don't do bad sauce passes
Cosimo Galluzzi
No title available
Peter Solarz

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Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

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Not today Justin
tumblr dot com

tannertan36

PR's Tumblrdome
AnasAbdin
One Nice Bug Per Day
trying on a metaphor

Origami Around

Love Begins
will byers stan first human second
ojovivo
occasionally subtle

#extradirty

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@universalshout
We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time.
T.S. Eliot, “Little Gidding”
The Beholder (Der Schauende)
I can tell by the way the trees beat, after so many dull days, on my worried windowpanes that a storm is coming, and I hear the far-off fields say things I can't bear without a friend, I can't love without a sister. The storm, the shifter of shapes, drives on across the woods and across time, and the world looks as if it had no age: the landscape, like a line in the psalm book, is seriousness and weight and eternity. What we choose to fight is so tiny! What fights with us is so great! If only we would let ourselves be dominated as things do by some immense storm, we would become strong too, and not need names. When we win it's with small things, and the triumph itself makes us small. What is extraordinary and eternal does not want to be bent by us. I mean the Angel who appeared to the wrestlers of the Old Testament: when the wrestlers' sinews grew long like metal strings, he felt them under his fingers like chords of deep music. Whoever was beaten by the Angel (who often simply declined the fight) went away proud and strengthened and great from that harsh hand, that kneaded him as if to change his shape. Winning does not tempt that man. This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively, by constantly greater beings.
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Ich sehe den Bäumen die Stürme an, die aus laugewordenen Tagen an meine ängstlichen Fenster schlagen, und höre die Fernen Dinge sagen, die ich nicht ohne Freund ertragen, nicht ohne Schwester lieben kann. Da geht der Sturm, ein Umgestalter, geht durch den Wald und durch die Zeit, und alles ist wie ohne Alter: die Landschaft, wie ein Vers im Psalter, ist Ernst und Wucht und Ewigkeit. Wie ist das klein, womit wir ringen, was mit uns ringt, wie ist das groß; ließen wir, ähnlicher den Dingen, uns so vom großen Sturm bezwingen, - wir würden weit und namenlos. Was wir besiegen, ist das Kleine, und der Erfolg selbst macht uns klein. Das Ewige und Ungemeine will nicht von uns gebogen sein. Das ist der Engel, der den Ringern des Alten Testaments erschien: wenn seiner Widersacher Sehnen im Kampfe sich metallen dehnen, fühlt er sie unter seinen Fingern wie Saiten tiefer Melodien. Wen dieser Engel überwand, welcher so oft auf Kampf verzichtet, der geht gerecht und aufgerichtet und groß aus jener harten Hand, die sich, wie formend, an ihn schmiegte. Die Siege laden ihn nicht ein. Sein Wachstum ist: der Tiefbesiegte von immer Größerem zu sein.
--Rainer Maria Rilke (transalted by Robert Bly)
She took all my money And my best friend You know the story Here it comes again
I have no pride I have no shame You gotta make it rain Make it rain
Since you're gone Deep inside it hurts I'm just another sad guest On this dark Earth
I want to believe In the mercy of the world again Make it rain Make it rain
There was a moment I know when I was under in the dark or something. Whatever I had been reduced to, not even consciousness, I was a vague awareness in the dark. I could feel my definition fading. And beneath that darkness there was another kind. It was deeper, warm, like a substance. I could feel, man. I knew - I knew - my daughter waited for me there. So clear, I could feel it. […] And all I had to do was let go and I did. I said, “Darkness, yeah!” And I disappeared. But I could still feel her love there, even more than before. Nothing, nothing but that love. And then I woke up.
M*A*S*H || One Gifset per episode
∟ 2x20 - As You Were
Messe de Nostre Dame - Guillaume de Machaut
Painting details ღ Eyes
Hempstead House Sands Point, Long Island
Hempstead House Sands Point, Long Island
Wohin auch immer wir reisen, wir suchen, wovon wir träumten, und finden doch stets nur uns selbst.
Günter Kunert (*1929), deutscher Schriftsteller (via willkommen-in-germany)
George III
By Arthur William Devis
Oil on canvas
Real Estate - Easy
Dreams we saw with eyes open Until that dream was done
berlin, katzbachstraße