Franz Kafka, from a letter to Felice Bauer written in 1912, featured in Letters To Felice
we're not kids anymore.

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★
styofa doing anything

Origami Around
cherry valley forever
Sade Olutola
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
Jules of Nature
noise dept.
Xuebing Du
Mike Driver
Cosimo Galluzzi

pixel skylines
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me

@theartofmadeline

shark vs the universe

JBB: An Artblog!

JVL

ellievsbear

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@yalublu
Franz Kafka, from a letter to Felice Bauer written in 1912, featured in Letters To Felice
Simone de Beauvoir, from a letter to Jean-Paul Sartre, featured in Letters to Sartre
“Don’t we all look at our beloveds sometimes and think, Why do I stay? Why do we stay? There is something vital in staying.”
— Andrew Sean Greer, Less Is Lost
Words by Andrea Gibson
Joy Sullivan, from “Sockeye”, Instructions for Traveling West
— Katherine Mansfield, from The Collected Letters of Katherine Mansfield (via lunamonchtuna)
Christa Wolf, from her novel titled "Cassandra," originally published in 1983
So Bright and Delicate: Love Letters and Poems of John Keats to Fanny Brawne.
Sylvia Plath
For art is something much too big and too difficult and too long for one life,
August 11, 1903 Rilke and Andreas-Salomé: a love story in letters (1897-1926)
Sylvia Plath, from a diary entry featured in The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
Here, there, nowhere to go. But maybe there was something to be said for choosing the hell you know.
Mariam Rahmani, from Liquid
Real life was no fun.
Mariam Rahmani, from Liquid
Aimee Nezhukumatathil, from Lucky Fish: Poems: “Foosh”
“Love is the plummet as well as the astrolabe of God’s mysteries, and the pure in heart can see far down into the depths of the divine justice, to catch a glimpse, not indeed of the details of the cosmic process, but at least of its principle and nature. These insights permit them to say […] that all shall be well, that, in spite of time, all is well, and that the problem of evil has its solution in the eternity, which men can, if they so desire, experience, but can never describe.”
— Aldous Huxley, The Perennial Philosophy