J.E.H. MacDonald (1873 - 1932), The Tangled Garden, 1916, 121.4 x 152.4 cm, oil on beaverboard, National Gallery of Canada
The Sound of Silence - Simon & Garfunkel
Hello darkness, my old friend
I’ve come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain still remains
Within the sound of silence
(noun) An untranslatable, Russian word – Vladimir Nabokov describes it best: “No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody or something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.” (via elvisqueso)
Nothing else matters, I don’t care what I miss
Company’s okay, solitude is bliss
There’s a party in my head and no one is invited
It’s your flaws I want to taste.
Your brooked mouth.
The way you smell after being
out all day. Your knees, so eager
to whatever song is playing in
Your chest, as it rises and falls
and rises and falls
on the carpeted ground. Your
sometimes smooth chin.
Your pimpled politeness. Your
Your good morning,
I don’t want to be able to run
my fingers through you easily.
It is no fun writing about
I want to talk about you.
Lora Mathis, Black Coffee (via stupidscalptattoos)