The Comet Book (1587), Details, “16th-century Treatise On Comets, Created Anonymously (or Maybe It

The Comet Book (1587), details, “16th-century treatise on comets, created anonymously (or maybe it was a woman who endured erasure) in Flanders”. Originally named in german Kometenbuch.

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useless12sstuff

3 years ago

And all I loved, I loved alone.

~ Alone by Edgar Allan Poe

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useless12sstuff

4 years ago

Jacob Wrestling with the Angel (Painting), 1843

by Alexandre Louis Leloir.

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useless12sstuff

4 years ago

Virginia Woolf〡Selected Prose; Mrs Dalloway

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useless12sstuff

3 years ago

1. Mary Oliver | 2. Katherine Mansfield

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useless12sstuff

4 years ago

“A man of intellect is like an artist who gives a concert without any help from anyone else, playing on a single instrument — a piano, say, which is a little orchestra in itself. Such a man is a little world in himself; and the effect produced by various instruments together, he produces single-handed, in the unity of his own consciousness.” - Arthur Schopenhauer, Counsels and Maxims

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useless12sstuff

4 years ago

Downfall

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useless12sstuff

4 years ago

crystals with landscapes of nature

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useless12sstuff

4 years ago

When did I get so grey. Or maybe I have always been this dull shade of nothingness. I'd like to think that I was once an exuberant yellow just to have something to compare with. To know that I've moved and changed and grown, to know that I had once tasted the sun,that I held it in my gentle hands and for once I didn't burn. But that's a lie isn't it? A comforting one but a lie nonetheless. Maybe I've always been grey.

~Me

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useless12sstuff

4 years ago

"When the world shuts down and the quiet shushes and the darkness cloaks, I do the opposite. My small rebellions."

~Me

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useless12sstuff

4 years ago

"So Now?"

the words have come and gone,

I sit ill.

the phone rings, the cats sleep.

Linda vacuums.

I am waiting to live,

waiting to die.

I wish I could ring in some bravery.

it's a lousy fix

but the tree outside doesn't know:

I watch it moving with the wind

in the late afternoon sun.

there's nothing to declare here,

just a waiting.

each faces it alone.

Oh, I was once young,

Oh, I was once unbelievably young!

~Charles Bukowski

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