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-F. Scott Fitzgerald

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I just shared an orange with my friend and we sat at the rail of the ship we work on and I almost teared up a bit. It was such a small thing but god was it beautiful. I’m like a little dirty pirate boy for three or four months out of the year now but I think I’m in love. In love with the ship’s resident siren. It is a forbidden love, alas.

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Cathedral ceilings in Poland

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I met her at one of my family’s business dinner parties. Every other month, the head of the business rents an establishment and hosts a dinner to flaunt the services they can afford. Each seemed to be more elaborate and fanciful than the last except for one thing: they always served carrot cake as a dessert choice. It was some sort of tribute to my great-grandfather that started the business. Upon reaching a certain age, you are required to attend these dinner parties and learn about the business. That meant using what I learned at finishing school to impress potential business partners and distant relatives I’ve never seen before. Learning to dance the waltz was one thing I hated but even I have to admit, it was pretty neat to show off a meager skill that most of the modern world would never think to learn. I usually didn’t take part in the dance but rather chose to sit at a table alone aside from the delicate gold trimmed glassware adorning the tablecloth. It never would have crossed my mind that there could be another person there remotely close to my age. However, she strolled right up to me. Instead of stiff greying hair she had short and neat black hair with feathery bangs that just barely covered the tops of her elegant gold wire-framed glasses. I even still remember exactly what she was wearing. It was a lacy dark grey dress with a single thin chained necklace and clean white sneakers. I never would have gotten away with wearing sneakers to one of these events because they were deemed to be not up to par with the elegance standards. Yet here she was, looking so perfectly important even as she seemed to still be working up the courage to say something to me. “Would you like to come dance with me?” And there it was. The first words she ever said to me. It was quite refreshing to have someone who was from the same generation to pass the time with. We talked about anything we could. It turns out her father was looking to strike a deal with mine and they would collaborate on a new project, the details of which were for them and them alone to know. She even shared the same sentiment that these dinners were pointless and akin to mental torture to have to put on an act for dozens of people for the sake of wealth and that the money could be more well spent on something important. She had gotten to attend public school for the sake of convenience as her family moved around a lot when she was younger. I had been enrolled in private schools my entire life, including over the summer, for the sake of boasting privilege. She had as much dignity and class as any of the most elite of my peers and yet was less stuck up and easier to trust than all of them. Plus, she had had the freedom and experience of not just public school but schools all over the country. It just so happened that we would be attending the same school this upcoming year. And she was planning on going all four years while her father is here on business before she goes out on her own. That was wonderful to hear because for the first time ever I found myself dreading having to leave this dinner, or rather, leave her.

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So who’s going to live here with me and raise goats or something and join me for a morning tea as I admire the view from a rickety wooden chair outside?

Old house in Senja, Northern Norway. - Thorbjørn Haagensen

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Reminds me of one time when I visited Chicago in the winter time. Let me tell you: it isn’t called the windy city for nothing. I had to hold my good friends hand to keep us both from flying away like a pair of obscure and un-aerodynamic kites or getting frostbitten extremities from the wind chill. All things considered, it was a good trip.

Woman in Blue in the Whirlwind of Dust

Zsigmond Vajda (1860-1931)

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Me and the boys around the campfire.

James Ensor, Skeletons Warming Themselves, 1889

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Can I have this etched on my grave please?

Early Poems of William Morris

1914

Artist : Florence Harrison

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You forgot to pick me up when you went. It’s alright though, next time I’ll pick you up and I’ll even buy you a few books. I’m free from now until the day I die btw.

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“Some people go to priests others to poetry”

Yeah, and we all know which route I chose. I may be a mediocre writer but man, do I enjoy doing it. And also reading works from actually decent writers.

𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑝𝑒𝑜𝑝𝑙𝑒 𝑔𝑜 𝑡𝑜 𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑠 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑝𝑜𝑒𝑡𝑟𝑦

—Virginia Woolf

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“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines.”

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

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No longer the fifth of January but the intent still stands.

- January 5, 1912

- The diaries of Franz Kafka, 1910-1913

[ID: January 5. For two days I have noticed, whenever I choose to, an inner coolness and indifference. Yesterday evening, during my walk, every little street sound, every eye turned toward me, every picture in a showcase, was more important to me than myself. End ID]

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A gentlemanly resolution, I think. Noble even when added to and revised slightly.

- E. M. Forster's New Year's resolutions, written 31 December 1904

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this life is the kind that makes you thirstier the more you drink

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Poets are the painters of human experience, capturing the colors of their heart in verse.

— agelesslibrary