Angel and Lion statue at Basilica di Santa Croce di Firenze

creatures in slavic mythology : zalojni mertsi, perelesnytsia and mavka

all the night, dear, I’ve been yearning; dreaming that you were returning! all the many tears I wept in a silver cup I’ve kept. without you, the tears, my lover; filled the cup till it brimmed over

Vermont Gothic

It is 4 pm. It is dark. The wind whips your hair around, obscuring your vision. You wonder when you will see the sun again. 

You are on an old, decrepit covered bridge. The wooden boards creak and moan beneath your feet. A sign is nailed to the front: For Pedestrians Only. The creaking gets steadily louder.

Lake Champlain has frozen over. You step out onto the ice, confident that you won’t fall through. You see something–a shadow, passing under the ice. It is big, too big to be anything other than Champ. You turn around. The shadow follows you back to the shore.

It is twenty below. Your bones rattle. You do not expect to ever be warm again. You heard on the news that another elderly person has been found dead in their home, killed by the cold. 

You wake up and the sky is dark with snowflakes. The drifts reach almost to your shoulders, the wind having shifted the snow overnight. You open your front door only to be met with a wall of snow. You do not know how you will reach your car. 

The road winds and twists, narrow and steep as you climb the mountain. Suddenly, eyes. You slam on the breaks. A doe stares back at you. Your heart pounds with adrenaline. The doe doesn’t move.

You follow the blue piping through the woods. Sugaring season. The ground is wet below your feat and you boots sink into the mud with every step. You see a shape out of the corner of your eye. Dark, and too big to be a dog. The bear watches you with intent.

It is summer. The air is wet, smothering. The humidity leaves your skin hot and clammy. You are at a climate change rally. Bill McKibben leads the crowd. It is too hot. You cannot breathe.

You walk along the edge of the road. Dust kicks up every time a car passes. The road is full of potholes, unpaved. You count the political signs as you go. 15 for Obama so far. Red catches your eye. It’s a Romney sign. You shudder and walk faster to the natural foods co-op.

I would like to visit

𝚆 𝚘 𝚛 𝚖   𝚘 𝚏 𝚏   𝚝 𝚑 𝚎    𝚜 𝚝 𝚛 𝚒 𝚗 𝚐 

 𝚆 𝚑 𝚊 𝚝   𝚂 𝚒 𝚗 𝚜   𝚠 𝚒 𝚕 𝚕   𝚑 𝚎   𝚌 𝚘 𝚖 𝚖 𝚒 𝚝

Sex (1992) by Steven Meisel

The Body of Christ

by  每日你與宇宙的光 忘了我吧

never posted these!! some funky starters from a long while ago

evanmcohen 

adore & all the things you are by Kaz Kaz

Reblog this if you’re pro-receiving a brown paper package containing one (1) handwritten love letter, a small jar of strawberry jam from the farmers market, and a smattering of pressed flowers.

The love letter.