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— The Pond, Mary Oliver

[text ID: August of another summer, and / once again / I am drinking the sun / and the lilies again are spread / across the water.]

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Kazuyuki Futagawa Aqua Jade Tree 2008 Natural Pigment on Japanese Paper 112×162 cm.

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Beauty of my Dish – 人魚達の宴図｜Banquet of Mermaids ~ 木村了子 | Ryoko Kimura Art works

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Marjane Satrapi, from Persepolis, 2000

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“Love is a gift that springs from an unlit spot. Resin and rue. Even when I’m in the dark I’m in the dark with you.”

— Alice Fulton, from “It Befalls Us, An Exchanged Glance, Reflective Spasm,” in “Triptych for Topological Heart,” Poetry (July / August 2014)

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Fulfillment by Hugo Hoppener Fidus (1868-1948)

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PRIDE AND PREJUDICE (2005) dir. Joe Wright

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Philipp Igumnov: Tminwf (2012)

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““The dragons! The dragons are avaricious, insatiable, treacherous, without pity, without remorse. But are they evil? Who am I, to judge the acts of dragons? …They are wiser than men are. It is with them as with dreams, Arren. We men dream dreams, we work magic, we do good, we do evil. The dragons do not dream. They are dreams. They do not work magic: it is their substance, their being. They do not do; they are.””

— Ursula K. Le Guin, The Farthest Shore

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'Whispering Souls'. Chris Cyprus. 2021.

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ARTIST: Louise Bourgeois (French, 1911-2010) WORK: The Welcoming Hands

MEDIUM: Bronze with silver nitrate

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Luthien and Beren stealing Silmarils from Morgoth

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A landscape bleak and interminable. She thought it to be alive and she saw little merit in it. She spoke her virgin sins through the wicket. Once. Again. And then no more. Hell hung on longer. She saw the resurrect vomited up from the pit to wander vacanteyed and smoking through the streets. Blinking in the unaccustomed light. She woke from dreams of struggle. Of leaden fight. Some sat and she listened for the sound of rain on the seamed metal roof but the rain had stopped in the night and there was only the drip of water from the eaves. Something on the road. Something coming. Some sweatsoaked beast, some hooded and wheezing abhorrence atrundle upon the footpath. Just the faintest movement of the air like a gradient of ill come unshelved and drifting toward her lonely outpost.

– Cormac McCarthy, The Passenger