“My mother boils seawater. It sits all afternoon simmering on the stovetop, almost two gallons in a big soup pot. The windows steam up and the house smells like a storm. In the evening, a crust of salt is all that’s left at the bottom of the pot. My mother scrapes it out with a spoon. We each lick a fingertip and dip them in the salt and it’s softer than you’d think, less like sand and more like snow. We lay our fingertips on our tongues, right in the middle. It tastes like salt but like something else, too—wide, and dark. It tastes like drowning, or like falling asleep on the shore and only waking up when the tide has come up to your feet and you wonder if you’d gone on sleeping, would you have sunk?”
The Alchemy: Salt from Water
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blorbuję, blorbujesz, blorbuje, blorbujemy, blorbujecie, blorbują
blorbo blorbas blorba blorbamos blorban
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going on aimless walks around the city alone at sunset…in my Raskolnikov era
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60s icelandic folk let's fucking goooo
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YES PLEASE MORE PEOPLE OF SINGING IN THEIR LANGUAGE BE PROUD OF YOUR FUCKING LANGUAGE I WANT IT ALL
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tumblr users with the new blaze feature
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mutuals to sit on the balcony on a summer night with
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“She wept at the memory of times past, and there was a romantic sadness in her feelings, luxurious and indefinable.”
— Ann Radcliffe, A Sicilian Romance
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This exact holiday combo post can only happen once every 33 years.
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heretic (complimentary)
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Ingrid Bergman: In Her Own Words (2015), dir. Stig Björkman
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sir that’s my emotional support story that I’ve been working on for five years that still has no conceivable plot
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i love to learn. unfortunately my brain doesn’t like to remember
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