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“I love borders. August is the border between summer and autumn; it is the most beautiful month I know. Twilight is the border between day and night, and the shore is the border between sea and land. The border is longing; when both have fallen in love but still haven’t said anything. The border is to be on the way. It is the way that is the most important thing.”

— Tove Jansson, “Moominvalley in November”

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The deepest things are prepared in the silence of the heart.

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George Noseworthy (1929-1985) — Metamorphosis [oil on linen, 1984]

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Victo Ngai (Hong Kong/American, b.1988), The Day, 2012

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Bear grass in the evening light cover the hillside near the Columbia Gorge, Washington by dwolters2

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That may be all it was…A wound that healed slowly, but heal it did.

— Kazuo Ishiguro, The Buried Giant

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Lagopus muta [ライチョウ,Rock ptarmigan]

ハイマツを重戦車のようにかき分けて出てきました😍

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She rose above me like the heavens,

30 July, 1908 Aleksandr Blok (1880-1921), Selected Poems

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BW Edit after Greek South Italian artist of the 4th century BC (Antefix, head of Medusa) (Metropolitan Museum of Art)

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Goddess of the crossroads

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Lori Nix and Kathleen Gerber

Humming Birds, 2009

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"You say it’s strange? That you don’t understand me? So if I were red in the face with shame, if I bore my humiliation on my chest like venom, if I kept my suffering in my soul, if I were morally abandoned and withered, if I shrank, kept quiet and shook like a leaf at every suspecting gaze, then all this wouldn’t seem strange to you. Then you’d understand me, then this would seem natural to you, wouldn’t it? That’s what you all are accustomed to. This is how people like me - the dishonored, the deceived and the abandoned usually behave. But since unlike the thousands before me I haven’t shrunk, I haven’t kept quiet, I have made it public myself instead of covering it up, because I have come out boldly, fearlessly to show the world my dishonor, my pain, my suffering and I’m demanding revenge with all the strength of my protesting soul - all this seems very strange to you and you don’t understand me, because, of course, all this is very strange in your eyes, because it’s not never done this way, because it shouldn’t be done this way, should it? Because it is shameful, something beyond ordinary morality, isn’t it, sir?"

Sarah's monologue in The Killed Dove novel, 1898

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The Count of Monte Cristo, Alexandre Dumas

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Chrysanthemums

James Jacques Joseph Tissot

1875 BC

Oil on canvas

119.2 x 76.7 cms | 46 3/4 x 30 ins