“I’m still writing about you and you haven’t read a word.”
— Travis Grandt (via -moonshine-)
d e v o n
NASA
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almost home
Peter Solarz

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DEAR READER
art blog(derogatory)
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Love Begins
AnasAbdin
Sweet Seals For You, Always
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
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@naturalinfiniteyes
“I’m still writing about you and you haven’t read a word.”
— Travis Grandt (via -moonshine-)

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feed my winter soul
“I am haunted. I am haunted by valleys.
They sing to me deep in my dreams. So I wander, I wander these mountains just to find a lowland home for me to keep.”
- Search
“Winter. Time to eat fat and watch hockey. In the pewter mornings, the cat, a black fur sausage with yellow Houdini eyes, jumps up on the bed and tries to get onto my head. It’s his way of telling whether or not I’m dead.”
-February, Margaret Atwood.

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tragedy and i are on the same wavelength. we sense each other approaching from miles away.
Noor Shirazie (via noorshirazie)
Oh, Death
Last night, I had a dream that every person was visited by Death during childhood. Death would sit quietly, priestly, on the couch in the front room as mothers served tea, coffee, finger sandwiches, and digestives. Dads would inquire about work, and maybe try to wheedle a sports prediction out of the stern fellow -- would Wilson make it through the season alive? They were quickly shot down by a sharp glance from Death as he balanced his mug in his palm. Death came to all of us when we were children to tell us how we would die. Not when. Just how. It defined how we lived, where we lived, what we studied, and who we loved. Death came to me when I was ten. Like a college professor picking apart a theory, he explained slowly that I was to die at the hands of a man. I felt fear rush through me, beginning in my toes and wrapping its fist around my throat. "Do you have any questions?" I didn't really think I could talk - the noises that left my mouth were more animal than human. A man would kill me someday. "Will I know who it is?" Death stare keenly, intently, and somewhat kindly into my eyes. I wondered if he had been a pediatrician before he became the harbinger of the end. "Yes. He will love you very, very much." "Will it be quick?" Death pursed his bone-white mouth. He touched my hand. "It will last a lifetime." He patted my fingers, standing quickly as if plucked by a marionette string in some invisible hand. "Good-bye, Anna. May your life be prosperous and long."
November — with uncanny witchery in its changed trees. With murky red sunsets flaming in smoky crimson behind the westering hills. With dear days when the austere woods were beautiful and gracious in a dignified serenity of folded hands and closed eyes — days full of fine, pale sunshine that sifted through the late, leafless gold of the juniper-trees and glimmered among the grey beeches, lighting up evergreen banks of moss and washing the colonnades of the pines. Days with a high-sprung sky of flawless turquoise. Days when an exquisite melancholy seemed to hang over the landscape and dream about the lake. But days, too, of the wild blackness of great autumn storms, followed by dank, wet, streaming nights when there was witch-laughter in the pines and fitful moans among the mainland trees.
L.M. Montgomery, from ‘The Blue Castle’ (via ablogwithaview)

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Cross your fingers for me
november thoughts
Today I heard they're bulldozing a forest that is a sweet remnant of my childhood memory.
This stand of trees, they live like god planted index fingers in the earth and painted them with hair-thin, see-through branches. Planted on a diagonal. As our car would pass on the way through Oregon, I smudged the window with my preteen nose and pushed. The light skipped through and would blind me in a pulsing rhythm. I never closed my eyes. It was there, then it was not, then it was. And so on.
I can feel them. I can feel how I dreamed of them as I sit at my kitchen window twelve years, ten years later. My palms itch with the longing I can so distinctly remember: to run my flat hand across their bark. I dreamed it was soft, so soft I could peel it back like tissue paper and stitch together a cloak and no one would ever find me and I would be gone forever, a tree myself. Although never quite as thin. Or tall.
I dreamed of running between their trunks, arms outstretched like some predatory bird, devouring wind and swallowing bugs and catching my fingers on their branches and spreading my blood on their skins and becoming them as they became me.
I dreamed of a forever between those trees, and now there is no more forever but a clear good-bye.
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Trigger Warning: Breakfast
Everyone’s story is important.
People shouldn’t need to see a picture of a dead child to feel empathy for migrants.
How did people first figure out that it was cicadas that make this noise? I could see that taking a long time. Were there just like a thousand years where people were like “yeah, the trees are screaming. They do that in the summer.”

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That summer I did not go crazy but I wore very close very close to the bone.
Dorothy Allison, from “To the Bone“ (via rawsugar)