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For Andy 🙏 Makes me think of you

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The Ecstasy by John Donne

Where, like a pillow on a bed A pregnant bank swell'd up to restThe violet's reclining head, Sat we two, one another's best.Our hands were firmly cemented With a fast balm, which thence did spring;Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread Our eyes upon one double string;So to'intergraft our hands, as yet Was all the means to make us one,And pictures in our eyes to get Was all our propagation.As 'twixt two equal armies fate Suspends uncertain victory,Our souls (which to advance their state Were gone out) hung 'twixt her and me.And whilst our souls negotiate there, We like sepulchral statues lay;All day, the same our postures were, And we said nothing, all the day.If any, so by love refin'd That he soul's language understood,And by good love were grown all mind, Within convenient distance stood,He (though he knew not which soul spake, Because both meant, both spake the same)Might thence a new concoction take And part far purer than he came.This ecstasy doth unperplex, We said, and tell us what we love;We see by this it was not sex, We see we saw not what did move;But as all several souls contain Mixture of things, they know not what,Love these mix'd souls doth mix again And makes both one, each this and that.A single violet transplant, The strength, the colour, and the size,(All which before was poor and scant) Redoubles still, and multiplies.When love with one another so Interinanimates two souls,That abler soul, which thence doth flow, Defects of loneliness controls.We then, who are this new soul, know Of what we are compos'd and made,For th' atomies of which we grow Are souls, whom no change can invade.But oh alas, so long, so far, Our bodies why do we forbear?They'are ours, though they'are not we; we are The intelligences, they the spheres.We owe them thanks, because they thus Did us, to us, at first convey,Yielded their senses' force to us, Nor are dross to us, but allay.On man heaven's influence works not so, But that it first imprints the air;So soul into the soul may flow, Though it to body first repair.As our blood labors to beget Spirits, as like souls as it can,Because such fingers need to knit That subtle knot which makes us man,So must pure lovers' souls descend T' affections, and to faculties,Which sense may reach and apprehend, Else a great prince in prison lies.To'our bodies turn we then, that so Weak men on love reveal'd may look;Love's mysteries in souls do grow, But yet the body is his book.And if some lover, such as we, Have heard this dialogue of one,Let him still mark us, he shall see Small change, when we'are to bodies gone.

There's a lot of love and loss in this record. Mhm. Yeah.

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eXCUSE ME???????????????????????

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And now a video of Hozier rolled up his sleeve to make your day better...

Credits : @ artziety (IG)

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i have been rearranged at a molecular level

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I know why and I'll instead drop something, make sure my "chi" can circle back without being cut off. To keep me from doing the whole exercise over again, I therefore eliminate any risk of deletion at that crossroads. (I may still have to come back to this path but nevermore shall I endure the aggravation of relentless cuts at pivotal intersections) You're welcome :)

I redownload this app for one day once every maybe two months and unfortunately I’m rewarded every time

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5 posts!

That's encouraging:)

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poet

Indeed

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“The woman you are becoming will cost you people, relationships, spaces, and material things. Choose her over everything.”

— Unknown

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I hope this finds is way to you, Andy :)

kmb

The Ecstasy

By John Donne

Where, like a pillow on a bed

A pregnant bank swell'd up to rest

The violet's reclining head,

Sat we two, one another's best.

Our hands were firmly cemented

With a fast balm, which thence did spring;

Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread

Our eyes upon one double string;

So to'intergraft our hands, as yet

Was all the means to make us one,

And pictures in our eyes to get

Was all our propagation.

As 'twixt two equal armies fate

Suspends uncertain victory,

Our souls (which to advance their state

Were gone out) hung 'twixt her and me.

And whilst our souls negotiate there,

We like sepulchral statues lay;

All day, the same our postures were,

And we said nothing, all the day.

If any, so by love refin'd

That he soul's language understood,

And by good love were grown all mind,

Within convenient distance stood,

He (though he knew not which soul spake,

Because both meant, both spake the same)

Might thence a new concoction take

And part far purer than he came.

This ecstasy doth unperplex,

We said, and tell us what we love;

We see by this it was not sex,

We see we saw not what did move;

But as all several souls contain

Mixture of things, they know not what,

Love these mix'd souls doth mix again

And makes both one, each this and that.

A single violet transplant,

The strength, the colour, and the size,

(All which before was poor and scant)

Redoubles still, and multiplies.

When love with one another so

Interinanimates two souls,

That abler soul, which thence doth flow,

Defects of loneliness controls.

We then, who are this new soul, know

Of what we are compos'd and made,

For th' atomies of which we grow

Are souls, whom no change can invade.

But oh alas, so long, so far,

Our bodies why do we forbear?

They'are ours, though they'are not we; we are

The intelligences, they the spheres.

We owe them thanks, because they thus

Did us, to us, at first convey,

Yielded their senses' force to us,

Nor are dross to us, but allay.

On man heaven's influence works not so,

But that it first imprints the air;

So soul into the soul may flow,

Though it to body first repair.

As our blood labors to beget

Spirits, as like souls as it can,

Because such fingers need to knit

That subtle knot which makes us man,

So must pure lovers' souls descend

T' affections, and to faculties,

Which sense may reach and apprehend,

Else a great prince in prison lies.

To'our bodies turn we then, that so

Weak men on love reveal'd may look;

Love's mysteries in souls do grow,

But yet the body is his book.

And if some lover, such as we,

Have heard this dialogue of one,

Let him still mark us, he shall see

Small change, when we'are to bodies gone.

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Words from light of love by Florence + the machine stitched onto fabric

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Warsan Shire, from “My Loneliness Is Killing Me”, Bless the Daughter Raised by a Voice in Her Head

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To be fair, no one told me there was gonna be a test later.

The fuck point (n.) The point in an assignment at which you say “Fuck it all,” slap down some bullshit, and turn it in without reading it