“He who tears his heart out of his breast at night reaches for the rose.”
— Paul Celan, tr. by Beth Bjorklung, from “Eyes: Shining with Rain,”

if i look back, i am lost

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Sweet Seals For You, Always

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YOU ARE THE REASON

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@solitaryseabird
“He who tears his heart out of his breast at night reaches for the rose.”
— Paul Celan, tr. by Beth Bjorklung, from “Eyes: Shining with Rain,”

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Softly the roses of your blood leave / death drenched through and through.
Else Lasker-Schüler, tr. by Brooks Haxton, from My Blue Piano; “Senna Hoy,” (via violentwavesofemotion)
“some sweet song
in honey voice
piercing breezes
wet with dew”
– Sappho, tr. by Anne Carson from if Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho
O sad one. Some heavy god has put more pain on you than any other human being.
Euripides, Hekabe (trans. by Anne Carson)
Viktor Kolar, From the Series Ostrava, 1964

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My own mind I suppose claws me. Analysed: headache; guilt; remorse…Is it that I lack will?How can I get sensible? How to live it over? I mind so much.
Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry featured in The Complete Works of Virginia Woolf; Selected Diaries. (via mirroir)
Gardening. No hope for the future.
Franz Kafka, from a diary entry featured in Diaries, 1910 -1923 (via mirroir)
Her flesh was a garden of mourning.
Hélène Cixous, Inside, pg.10 (Schocken Books, New York / 1986). Translated by Carol Barko. (via eveninglesbian)
Unknown Photographer, Photo of Sun at 15 Minute Intervals, White Horse, Canada, (1933)
I go a wintry way, for love that smiled in April is false to me in May.
Sara Teasdale, May (via mirroir)

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Notturno
Tunguska.RdM
LensCulture /// ArtLimited /// ND Magazine
The bed itself is an operating table where my dreams slice me to pieces.
Anne Sexton, from “The Lost Lie” featured in The Complete Poems (via watchoutforintellect)
#35mm #film @kiwikan 🌹
Eat My Heart © Lia Cruz | Instagram

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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People. People. Endless noise. And I am so tired. And I would like to sleep under trees; red ones, blue ones, swirling passionate ones.
Fyodor Dostoevsky, from Complete Prose Collection; “The Brothers Karamazov,” (via oiseauperdu)