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Egon Schiele, June 12, 1890 – October 31, 1918.

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Hieronymus Bosch

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Oh shit Ukraine is bombing putin's Crimea bridge again

Bring it down lads

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Holly Wilmeth

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“Unfortunately, the clock is ticking, the hours are going by. The past increases, the future recedes. Possibilities decreasing, regrets mounting.”

— Haruki Murakami, Dance Dance Dance

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Diego Fernandez

“465″ (2018)

INSTAGRAM (@diegoidef)

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Lou Reed and Nico

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Jana Sterbak: Sisyphus Sport (1997)

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“Writing feels like being within you, silence, and then emerging, bronzed. Somehow, writing feels more related to beginnings than endings. Writing feels outside of time. In a windowless room. Not in a room at all. In a state of being half-awake and half-possessed. In an endless snowstorm, ploughed under. Alone. As I reach for memory that has become extinct. Dear Silence, how do I enter you, seeking answers, but come out writing into and toward ambiguity? How do I “live the questions,” as Rilke says in Letters to a Young Poet. How many times have I looked so hard for someone’s eyes to catch mine that I disappeared? That feels like writing. That feels like living the question.”

— Victoria Chang, Dear Memory: Letters on Writing, Silence and Grief

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A glacier flowing over mountains.

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Eye Balloon (1898) by Odilon Redon

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Zdzisław Beksiński