And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour."
-William Blake, Auguries of Innocence
The Hannibal fandom is the creepiest, yet politest fandom ever.
to be fair our motto is ‘eat the rude’
The Monuments Men were a group of men and women from thirteen nations, most of whom volunteered had expertise as museum directors, curators, art scholars and educators, artists, architects, and archivists. The Monuments Men job description was simple: to save as much of the culture of Europe as they could during combat.
Stop comparing where you’re at with where everyone else is. It doesn’t move you farther ahead, improve your situation, or help you find peace. It just feeds your shame, fuels your feelings of inadequacy, and ultimately, it keeps you stuck. The reality is that there is no one correct path in life. Everyone has their own unique journey. A path that’s right for someone else won’t necessarily be a path that’s right for you. And that’s okay. Your journey isn’t right or wrong, or good or bad. It’s just different. Your life isn’t meant to look like anyone else’s because you aren’t like anyone else. You’re a person all your own with a unique set of goals, obstacles, dreams, and needs. So stop comparing, and start living. You may not have ended up where you intended to go. But trust, for once, that you have ended up where you needed to be. Trust that you are in the right place at the right time. Trust that your life is enough. Trust that you are enough.
Daniell Koepke (via cierrafrances)
writing is safer, somehow
because my pen cannot stutter like my lips do,
and words get stuck in throats,
not fingertips, can’t stumble
on paper trails of blue lines
because writing is definite and clear
and no one can tell if i am crying
through written words alone
» Age-defying: Master key of lifespan found in brain
The brain’s mechanism for controlling ageing has been discovered – and manipulated to shorten and extend the lives of mice. Drugs to slow ageing could follow
all of architecture are but tracings from the blueprints of the universe. the careful designs of a humanity which aches to decode, through the reconstruction of the skies, its own passage into the secrets of the stars.
the slow burn of infant stars thrum through the multiverses into the designs of the renaissance. observe: the spatial poetries echoing the the immaculate conceptions of supernovae whose of an era who clarion call was that of rebirthing the best of humanity.
pay attention, and sing the hymns of symmetry, proportion and geometry as they are preached like a religion, patterns sought to be imposed upon the fabric of reality, which the 2770 seemingly defies with apocalyptic chaos one first presumes necessary to birth from a galaxy stars which burn to bright to last for long.
but tessellate the divine order of the renaissance structures upon this defiant galaxy, note: the hidden patterns incarnate within the dancing elemental motes, their strictly exultant waltzes across ballrooms of celestial spheres lit with chandeliers of restless dust and debris, watch as they gasp and fuse into combinations unthinkable semiseconds ago.
don’t startle when you realize how like these patterns are to the indecipherable orbits of pigeons across the domes of the renaissance cities, movements embedded in codes too ancient to fully comprehend.
because the designs of the renaissance are schroedinger’s gifts of rebirth: scriptures to exultant cultures of creation which humanity has sung since the beginning of time, and which is celebrated in every arch in this era of architecture. buildings built as the centers of their own universes, echos of the self-sculpting 2770 - which, every few centuries of so, flings dares into the unfathomable abysses of the universe, with bubbles of light that burst into interstellar explosions that stab like the era’s forest fires of creative energy that sparks the formerly free-falling mankind back into existence, a bright white light against the timeline of history.
the old order, then: spiraling into white hot moral centers that explodeinto glorious new domes from the rubble of eloquent ruins of colosseums past, that arch through the linear homages of the renaissance.
see for yourself: the altars of the divine in pure unbridled science: the crossroads of the ineffable and the brutally rational, bursting through triumphal arches to light michelangelo’s piazzas, tracing the familiar ornate spirals, engraved from the lit vacuum of the skies.
do you dare, then, prostrate yourself at the cathedral of the stars?
A writer - and, I believe, generally all persons - must think that whatever happens to him or her is a resource. All things have been given to us for a purpose, and an artist must feel this more intensely. All that happens to us, including our humiliations, our misfortunes, our embarrassments, all is given to us as raw material, as clay, so that we may shape our art.
Jorge Luis Borges (via astrangerhere)
The Potoo - Either the most unphotogenic or the most ridiculous looking bird in the world.
Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.
Starfleet Vessel: U.S.S. Enterprise NCC-1701-B
Spring in Mt. Fuji