valerie.sy.lam

Salzburg, 2011.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.

Sun-bathed tree phosphorus green; dawn breathing life to day.

Like a secret, it came unexpected and would rather engrave itself on memory than let you dismiss it to yesterday. Unsearchable, the chase for beauty is far more liberating than beholding it, possessing it. Dreams are wild things that need galaxy length to run and stretch and transform; living things that can suffocate in harassing city full of vain noises, driven mad by an epidemic of anxiety. Test the dreamscape boundaries and feel the tingling fearlessness that perceiving blind men know when they walk on water: forward following, leaving the sight of expectation behind.

Holocene by Bon Iver

(By the way, can you spot three clocks in this video?)

reduced to haze indiscernible.

Hand cusped face of the moon, waiting for dusk

The author of “The Glass Castle” and, most recently, “The Silver Star,” is not a fan of “escapist” literature: “Reality is just so interesting, why would you want to escape it?”

of slow delicate labour

Suncatcher a spider's webbed afternoon of delicate slow labour

- Use of the Days by Pablo Neruda

Source: Brain Pickings.org