Couvertures de sérénité
Anonymous asked: Oh my, your theme is absolutely gorgeous. Where'd you get it? If you don't mind my asking.

i don’t know… i have had this theme for so long that what used to be the source of it no longer exists. i’m sorry! 

"…your eyes look more
like carved turquoise
and less like a flustered sea;

your arms, once restless
branches, are ropes,
carrying light and dark

with spirit and a smirk.
When I am tired of hearing
the pattern of my heartbeats,

I remember the music of yours —
murmuring waves,
ocean’s saxophone."

Zeenie Sharif, “Ocean’s Saxophone”

ripples: Crab Nebula, photographed by Hubble, autumn 2005.

10 images in 558 nm (green) light, September-December 2005.

The Crab Nebula is a cloud of gas 11 light years across, created by the collapse and explosion of a giant star in 1054 AD (a Type II supernova). At the centre of the nebula is a neutron star, the Crab Pulsar, the incredibly dense remnant of the original star; 1.5 to 2 times the mass of the Sun, but only 30 km across. Intense solar wind from the pulsar creates visible ripples in the surrounding nebula.

From Proposal 10526. Some more gifs of the Crab Nebula seen by Hubble.

Image credit: NASA/ESA/STScI. Animation: AgeOfDestruction.

(Source: ageofdestruction, via middecember)

Francis Poulenc - Nocturne No. 3 in F Major, “Les Cloches de Malines”

(Source: likeafieldmouse)

You’re in love with him, and he’s in love with you, and it’s like a goddamn tragedy, because you look at him and see the stars, and he looks at you and sees the sun. And you both think the other is just looking at the ground.

(Source: awestiles, via pappan-och-havet)

"…and I will be able to learn by heart
the size of yours, the width of your veins,
the pressure made against your valves
by each ingredient of your sacred blood.
Holy millimetres of mercury.
That way I might know the depth of your love,
the percentage of your goodness.
I imagine them bottomless and infinite
because for me, you are their definition
but I try to be certain.
I live to know you inside out.
I would leave this world
to travel the map of your mind,
to know the colour each wire
of your brain lights up when roused.
I listen to the nuances
in your responses
while scanning the contours of your face,
so that even if your core is secret
I might analyse the data anomalies
of your beauty freckles,
read between the wry curl of your lip lines
to find more than teeth, prettier than an infant’s,
making me long to kiss the warmth
in the corners of your cat-like eyes.
I recognise the cognitive tick-tock behind them
as you select the perfect word,
and although I might hesitate
in the silence of those gaps,
it is when you fill them that I realise
my desperate desire for your science
and attempts at mathematics are not necessary.
I cannot solve you, because you are not a problem.
You are every solution and
my only need is to love you…"

Fern Angel Beattie, “The Solution” 

"You are the taste of the blood in my veins,
the iron caught in my throat
that burns the back of my nose and corrodes my cavity
like cocaine until I choke."

Fern Angel Beattie, “Something Blue”

Look On Down From The Bridge - Mazzy Star

Everybody seems so far away from me
Everybody just wants to be free

(Source: iamhadriel, via c-ovet)


Monet in his garden Flowers Garden Love


Monet in his garden Flowers Garden Love

(via margaretrose-)

"She has a shy mouth, and, when she’s
nervous, the right side of it tremors, twitches
into a slight smile. I love
the way her chapstick feels after I’ve kissed her
off and it sits sticky and sweet on my own lips. She
sips her tea, no sugar, pulls
the blanket around her because
she’s always cold. This means
I get to hold her closer."

Hannah Ruhlin, “Asil”

"leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are papier mache puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses.
you make him call before
he visits. you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street."

Marty McConnell, ”Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell”

"At some point it becomes true that all stories
are love stories. all making, love making.
I didn’t make this rule. but it binds me
all the same. I wish there were a law
against condescending against love. against
the economy of fear that says your joy
means less joy for me as if love
were pie, or money, or fossil fuel
dug or pumped from the earth, gone
when it’s gone. it’s just not true. the heart
with its gift for magnificent expansion
is not coal. not fruit set to spoil or the dollar
cringing in its wallet. when you say darling,
the world lights up at its edges. when mouths
find mouths and minds follow or minds find
minds and mouths, hands, hips, toes, follow –
how about you call that sacred. how about you raise
your veined right hand and swear on the blood
that branches there, yes. I take this crush
to be my lawful infatuation. I will bend toward joy
until the bending’s its own pleasure. I will memorize
photographs and street maps, I will acquiesce
to the maudlin urgency of pop songs and dance,
and dance – there’s a perfection only the impossible kiss
possesses. there are notes you can only hear naked
in the dark of a room to which you will never
return. anything that moves the world toward light
is a blessing. why not take it with both hands,
lift it to your lips like a broth of stars. this
is the substance that holds our little atoms together
into bodies. this sweet paste of longing
is all that binds us to the earth.
and all we know of the gods."

Marty McConnell, “Three of Cups” 

(Source: letters-to-nobody, via 5000letters)