The Wild Swans And Others Stories

Walking with the Wind, Abbas Kiarostami (translated by Michael Beard)

｡ﾟﾟ･｡･ﾟﾟ｡ ﾟ. September will bring blessings.

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thierry mugler’s macbeth costumes

Detail from Caravaggio’s “The Incredulity of St. Thomas”, c. 1601-02.

we argue in the kitchen, about whether to have children and about the world ending, and the scale of my ambition and how much is art really worth the very thing you're best at is the thing that hurts the most but you need your rotten heart your dazzling pain like diamond rings you need to go to war to find material to sing I am no mother, I am no bride, I am king I need my golden crown of sorrow my bloody sword to swing my empty halls to echo with grand self-mythology I am no mother, I am no bride, I am king I am no mother, I am no bride, I am king but a woman is a changeling, always shifting shape just when you think you have it figured out something new begins to take what strange claws are these scratching at my skin? I never knew my killer would be coming from within I am no mother, I am no bride, I am king I am no mother, I am no bride, I am king I need my golden crown of sorrow my bloody sword to swing I need my empty halls to echo with grand self-mythology 'cause I am no mother, I am no bride, I am king I am no mother, I am no bride, I am king I am no mother, I am no bride, I am king I am no mother, I am no bride, I am king ho ho-oh-hoo ho-ooh ho-oh-oh-oh I was never as good as I always thought I was but I knew how to dress it up I was never satisfied, it never let me go just dragged me by my hair and back on with the show

the blooming flowers

the flowers bloom and birds chirp, as they follow path of a girl on a stroll. the child skips and so do they, beloved by warmth, beloved by fae. the songs grow bright like the light of the stars, and flower bloom to give food and nectar. they flowers cover the palace and lock those who stop, for the virgin footholder has come back to shop.

Messenger Bunny

"For very special deliveries!"

Ko-fi / Instagram

Linda Pastan, from Insomnia: Poems; “Fingerprints”

ripe, sarah rose etter