(via zeicchi)

Songs are as sad as the listener.
Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
leewoodman:

Charcoal no. 84
Lee Woodman 2012

leewoodman:

Charcoal no. 84

Lee Woodman 2012

leewoodman:

Charcoal no. 97
Lee Woodman 2012
(in private collection)

leewoodman:

Charcoal no. 97

Lee Woodman 2012

(in private collection)

In spite of language, in spite of intelligence and intuition and sympathy, one can never really communicate anything to anybody. The essential substance of every thought and feeling remains incommunicable, locked up in the impenetrable strong-room of the individual soul and body. Our life is a sentence of perpetual solitary confinement.
Aldous Huxley

(via fuckyeahexistentialism)

Medusa didn’t ask for the snakes in her hair.
She gazed hoping to see love never stone.
Poor Medusa wasn’t born a monster.
Until Poseidon in his rage condemned her to be.
Can’t you see?
What was once pure beauty became poison.
And, her kindness a lost myth.
Alas, the story of many women is also this.

Hannah Sofia Ghani, Poor Medusa

(via ontheedgeofdarkness)

We are, as a species, addicted to story. Even when the body goes to sleep, the mind stays up all night, telling itself stories.
Jonathan Gottschall, The Storytelling Animal: How Stories Make Us Human
inneroptics:

Judy Coleman -
WAKING DREAM, 1988

inneroptics:

Judy Coleman -

WAKING DREAM, 1988

(via astretchofnothingness)

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my dark star
私の力はあなたの理解を超えています

a
midnight
vision
of
a
figure
hovering
over
water
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