Cold glass, how you insert yourself
Between myself and myself. I scratch like a cat.
The blood that runs is dark fruit—- An effect, a cosmetic.
You smile. No, it is not fatal.
Sylvia Plath, "The Other"
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda

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@impf
Cold glass, how you insert yourself
Between myself and myself. I scratch like a cat.
The blood that runs is dark fruit—- An effect, a cosmetic.
You smile. No, it is not fatal.
Sylvia Plath, "The Other"

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Homme @marco.lstn
Yamamoto Masao, Kawa Flow #1689, 2020, gelatin silver print
(via https://cdn.sanity.io/images/juzvn5an/release-adp/d009de01f2370b317c5510552cad512084804105-1920x1300.jpg?w=2048)

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It seems to me I am trying to tell you a dream—making a vain attempt, because no relation of a dream can convey the dream-sensation, that co-mingling of absurdity, surprise, and bewilderment in a tremor of struggling revolt, that notion of being captured by the incredible which is of the very essence of dreams [ . . . ] No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one's existence—that which makes its truth, its meaning—its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream—alone.
Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
@Nirav Patel

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My Childhood (1972) dir. Bill Douglas
José Manuel Rodrigues
Maps
2014 May 09
©DearIndifference
-was flagged before-
Susan Sontag, As Consciousness Is Harnessed to Flesh: Journals and Notebooks, 1964 - 1980
Akihito Takuma - Lines of Flight, oil on canvas
via

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