“The Scent Of Blossom, Morning Sweetness, Heavenly Felicity.”

ode to Flora

4 aventures de Reinette et Mirabelle, Éric Rohmer, 1986

The woods enclose. You step between the first trees and then you are no longer in the open air; the wood swallows you up. (…) Once you are inside it, you must stay there until it lets you out again (…)

Angela Carter, from The Erl-King in “The Bloody Chamber And Other Stories” (via adrasteiax)

She mistrusted reality. She understood infinity. She was weeping, weeping whole seas.

César Vallejo, tr. by Robert Bly, from “At the Border of a Flowering Grave,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

“I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers.” -Claude Monet

There are a few things in life so beautiful they hurt: swimming in the ocean while it rains, reading alone in empty libraries, the sea of stars that appear when you’re miles away from the neon lights of the city, bars after 2am, walking in the wilderness, all the phases of the moon, the things we do not know about the universe, and you.

Beau Taplin, “And You” (via themotivationjournals)

I felt once more how simple and frugal a thing is happiness: a glass of wine, a roast chestnut, a wretched little brazier, the sound of the sea. Nothing else.

Nikos Kazantzakis | Zorba the Greek (via herpaperweight)

Smoke Like Phantoms

Smoke like souls

Crooked, gnarling ghosts that float right through you.

They are free when they are taken by the wind.

Dissipated, faded into empty air.

Until that’s all that’s left.

Empty space.

Empty?

It must still be full of ghosts.

They must be somewhere.

All the ghosts in this space alone,

How many in this house?

How many in the garden?

The forgotten patrons of this land,

An unimaginable multitude of memories.

Does anyone keep these memories still?

I want to believe that this place gave joy.

I have felt joy here.

I have seen such beauty in this land, but

It has also witnessed my pain.

It has watched my adolescence unfold.

Whoever owns this house next will never know.

Does it remain, in the ghosts

Of the smoke

That stains these walls?

    - S.T / moving out

No summer ever came back, and no two summers ever were alike. Times change, and people change…

Nathaniel Hawthorne (via wordsnquotes)