Mahmoud Darwish, Life To The Last Drop

'Howards End' by E. M. Forster (published in 1910)

Velimir Khlebnikov, Collected Works, Vol. 3: Selected Poems, tr. by Paul Schmidt

Vincent van Gogh, from a letter to his brother Theo (London, beginning of January 1874)

This is a composite of meteor images captured during the Perseid maximum in the morning of the 12th of August 2016. Image credit: Michael Nolle

dark academia: stem + medicine

math: solving problems in the middle of the night, equations are written on the windowpane, quick calculations in your head, seeing mathematics as a secret language and barrier from the rest of the world, using probability theory to present a person’s life before their very eyes, understanding the algorithms governing every single step of „fate“ and how to manipulate them for your favor, cryptic notebooks, and lost alleyways

engineering: the power to create something that surpasses that is more than humans will ever be, governing and shaping the future of a whole civilization, late-night philosophizing on the nature and difference between humans and machines, crammed study sessions and tired blood-shot eyes

biology: extensive knowledge about herbology and toxicology, knowing almost every plant-based toxin and toxic mushroom in the local area, midnight at the lab with lowlights on and the dark hallways shrouded in mystery, glancing white lab-coats from the corner of your eye

chemistry: spending hours upon hours alone in the lab, perfecting formulas and conducting research because you just know the breakthrough is so close, sudden heureka moments in the middle of the night, inhaling new substances at secret meetings in old buildings to reach a state no human has reached before, prolonged shared eye contact and knowing smiles, the sound of a pen hastingly scribbling chemical formulas into a notebook

physics: „after all, murder is just the redistribution of matter, and matter is my specialty“, pointing out constellations in the sky, seeing patterns no one has seen before, wearing black turtlenecks and long coats while discussing quantum mechanics, hushed whispers, the melancholy of the endless search for another inhabitable planet, coffee cups left on the window sill

comp sci: the sound of typing at lightning speed, a lone screen glowing the absolute dark, losing track of time as you completely lose yourself in your code, trying again and again and again until it finally works, absolute dedication, crafting algorithms that can be used for good – but also for evil, code marathons isolating you from the rest of the world, being able to change lives at the press of a button

medicine: death looms always an inch too close, becoming as natural as life, white coats looming over the dissection table, staring at Rembrandt’s „the anatomy lessons of dr. nicholaes tulp“ in absolute awe, gloves covered in blood, syringes and needles in hand, hollowed laughter, being the last one in the library, knowing too well what sacrifice means

Last week, I learned that the English language has more euphemisms for death than any other language. I learned that the ancient Greeks had no word for the colour blue and that the Hawain alphabet has only twelve letters. I spent last week hollowing out a little place in my heart and filling it with worry. What does that say about us? Do we really go out of our way to avoid death like that? How did the Greeks describe the sea? Are twelve letters really enough? Does every language have a word for love? Every language should have a word for love. And compassion. And gentleness. And figs and snow and that soft sensitive part on the inside of one’s arm. We should have words for everything so that we don’t feel alone. We need very very very specific words for all of the different kinds of sad and even more specific words for the kinds of happy. What if we were able to talk about everything? I want to tell you how I feel and I want to be precise. Sometimes ‘good’ just isn’t enough and few understand what I mean when I say that I feel ’like lightning.’

Bjørg-Elise Tuppen / «Moments With the Moon II»

- Andrea Gibson

me, experiencing the sudden anguish that comes with living: alright

On Finding the Freedom to Rage Against Our Fathers, Minda Honey

— The Crucible, Arthur Miller (via macrolit)

Elsa with her hair down

Margaret Atwood, ‘A Sunday Drive’

Chad Unger

— Miklós Radnóti, from “Flower Tree,” Miklós Radnóti: The Complete Poetry in Hungarian and English (McFarland & Company, 2012)