Nobuhiko Ôbayashi , emotion 1966
wallacepolsom
noise dept.

Sade Olutola
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me

#extradirty
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

Love Begins
One Nice Bug Per Day
TVSTRANGERTHINGS

roma★
cherry valley forever
Claire Keane
Game of Thrones Daily

★

shark vs the universe
d e v o n

tannertan36

ellievsbear
hello vonnie
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@everythingyoucouldbebynow
Nobuhiko Ôbayashi , emotion 1966

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Gathering.
Nobuyoshi Araki A Desktop Paradise Taka Ishii Gallery Photography Paris, Paris September 15 – October 29, 2016
Thirteen years old girl with shy eyed, Jungup, Korea, 1979 by H. Edward Kim.

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Gizem Bozkurt on Instagram
White mycena - Steve Axford

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Friedrich Kunath (German, b. 1974, Chemnitz, Germany, based Los Angeles, CA, USA) - I Love You, But I’ve Chosen Darkness, 2017-2018 Paintings: Oil on Canvas
with Martina Cox
das deutsche aktwerk, 1940
John Zurier - Late Afternoon in Three Parts (Elsewhere)
Glue-size tempera on linen, 84 × 58 in. / 213.4 × 147.3 cm, 2017
Death has nothing to do with going away. The sun sets and The moon sets But they are not gone.
________
“ON THE DAY I DIE” | Rumi
On the day I die, when I'm being carried
toward the grave, don't weep. Don't say,
He's gone! He's gone. Death has nothing to do with going away. The sun sets and
the moon sets, but they're not gone.
Death is a coming together. The tomb
looks like a prison, but it's really
release into union. The human seed goes
down in the ground like a bucket into
the well where Joseph is. It grows and
comes up full of some unimagined beauty.
Your mouth closes here, and immediately
opens with a shout of joy there.
---------------------------------
One who does what the Friend wants done
will never need a friend.
There's a bankruptcy that's pure gain.
The moon stays bright when it
doesn't avoid the night.
A rose's rarest essence
lives in the thorn.
----------------------------------
Childhood, youth, and maturity,
and now old age.
Every guest agrees to stay
three days, no more.
Master, you told me to
remind you. Time to go.
-----------------------------------
The angel of death arrives,
and I spring joyfully up.
No one knows what comes over me
when I and that messenger speak!
-------------------------------------
When you come back inside my chest no matter how far I've wandered off,
I look around and see the way.
At the end of my life, with just one breath left, if you come then, I'll sit up and sing.
--------------------------------------
Last night things flowed between us
that cannot now be said or written.
Only as I'm being carried out
and down the road, as the folds of my shroud open in the wind,
will anyone be able to read, as on
the petal-pages of a turning bud,
what passed through us last night.
-------------------------------------
I placed one foot on the wide plain
of death, and some grand
immensity sounded on the emptiness.
I have felt nothing ever
like the wild wonder of that moment.
Longing is the core of mystery.
Longing itself brings the cure.
The only rule is, Suffer the pain.
Your desire must be disciplined,
and what you want to happen
in time, sacrificed.”
― Rumi,
The Soul of Rumi: A New Collection of Ecstatic Poems
art:
Lunar eclipse - Your Shadow | Jiwoon Pak, 2016

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somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond any experience,your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose or if your wish be to close me,i and my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands
image: christopher kelly + simon costin
A Color of the Sky
BY TONY HOAGLAND (1953-2018, RIP)
Windy today and I feel less than brilliant, driving over the hills from work. There are the dark parts on the road when you pass through clumps of wood and the bright spots where you have a view of the ocean, but that doesn’t make the road an allegory. I should call Marie and apologize for being so boring at dinner last night, but can I really promise not to be that way again? And anyway, I’d rather watch the trees, tossing in what certainly looks like sexual arousal. Otherwise it’s spring, and everything looks frail; the sky is baby blue, and the just-unfurling leaves are full of infant chlorophyll, the very tint of inexperience. Last summer’s song is making a comeback on the radio, and on the highway overpass, the only metaphysical vandal in America has written MEMORY LOVES TIME in big black spraypaint letters, which makes us wonder if Time loves Memory back. Last night I dreamed of X again. She’s like a stain on my subconscious sheets. Years ago she penetrated me but though I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, I never got her out, but now I’m glad. What I thought was an end turned out to be a middle. What I thought was a brick wall turned out to be a tunnel. What I thought was an injustice turned out to be a color of the sky. Outside the youth center, between the liquor store and the police station, a little dogwood tree is losing its mind; overflowing with blossomfoam, like a sudsy mug of beer; like a bride ripping off her clothes, dropping snow white petals to the ground in clouds, so Nature’s wastefulness seems quietly obscene. It’s been doing that all week: making beauty, and throwing it away, and making more. image: Bruce Boyd & Tharien Smith