Everything is plundered, betrayed, sold.
Death’s great black wing scrapes the air,
Misery gnaws to the bone.
Why then do we not despair?
By day, from the surrounding woods,
cherries blow summer into town;
at night the deep transparent skies
glitter with new galaxies.
• 23 April 2014 • 139 notes
“May we not speak of the old days? [Silence.] Of what
came after? [Silence.] Shall we hold hands in the old
— Samuel Beckett, from Come And Go (via violentwavesofemotion)
• 23 April 2014 • 210 notes
“She wouldn’t say what we both knew. “The reason you will not say it is, when you say it, even to yourself, you will know it is true: is that it? But you know it is true now. I can almost tell you the day when you knew it is true. Why won’t you say it, even to yourself?””
— William Faulkner, from As I Lay Dying (via violentwavesofemotion)
(Source: faulknerandfieldnotes, via violentwavesofemotion)
• 22 April 2014 • 730 notes
Landscapes at the edge of the Mackenzie Mountains in the Sahtú Region of the Northwest Territories, Canada.
• 19 April 2014 • 46 notes
© 2014 Helena Long
I do love winter landscapes but I am ready to move on…
• 18 April 2014 • 114 notes
it’s been so long since we had stormy weather
• 18 April 2014 • 52 notes
“I still wonder about the things you do.”
— Amy Winehouse, from Me & Mr Jones (via violentwavesofemotion)
• 16 April 2014 • 1,599 notes
Two porch-side stargazers, wrapped in a red blanket,
mid-December, facing opposite directions.
I lean, my back, against yours. Your spine
is toothed and sharp, but when you turn,
I can feel you.
It is cold, and we take swigs of wine
from plastic cups. There is an ocean
in my stomach.
Twenty-minutes go by, and I have seen more stars
• 16 April 2014 • 56 notes