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on childhood friendship: (1) / (2) / (3, 4) night in the woods (2017) / (5) / (6) / (7)  p.s. i still love you, jenny han

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Richard Savoie.

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it drives me crazy how humans are just meant to hold each other. how come when you hold someone's hand, your fingers just perfectly lock with theirs? how is it that when you hug someone, your face fits just right in the crook of their neck? how can your hands cup someone's face like that's their only primary function? it cannot be coincidence that our bodies are fully capable of holding another... we were designed to love

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stargazing, the smell of earth after it rains, misty mornings by the sea, earl grey tea, lavender, the smell of old books, charcoal drawings, braids, long conversations late at night, quiet afternoons spent listening to music, baking, owls, winter, open windows, getting so absorbed in a book you forget the world exists, snow globes, watching milk swirl into coffee, getting up early to watch the sunrise, the sound of rain on a rooftop as you try to fall asleep, keeping a journal

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annie baker / sufjan stevens / alexandra adornetto / jenny holzer / gustave flaubert / franz kafka / haruki murakami / natalie diaz

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“I don’t ask you to love me always like this, but I ask you to remember. Somewhere inside of me there will always be the person I am tonight.”

— F. Scott Fitzgerald

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The human heart stripped of fat and muscle, with just the angel veins exposed.

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I go feral for antiques. Who held you? Who loved you? How did you end up here, with me?

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some things we should start romanticising

bike rides, especially when listening to music. the wind in your hair, the songs in your ears, every sound being quiet and living in your own bubble of lyrics. (edit: in some countries this is illegal and it can be dangerous - i had not thought of that and i apologise)

sitting in a bus. you’re going back home, maybe you’re reading a book or just looking outside of the foggy glass.

making tea. warming up the water, bringing it to a simmer and closing the gas, pouring it into a ceramic mug, the perfume of tea leaves: it’s a ritual.

buying a new book. walking in a book store, reading the first page of a book that sounds interesting, choosing a book because of its cover, never having heard of that book.

reading the last page of a book. that one doctor who episode where the doctor says he rips the last page of each book he reads, reading the last line and feeling like all the air in your lungs is gone.

that one specific moment when you are coming back from a party and you’re walking the few last steps before getting home. 

writing your name on a new notebook. scribbling messy letters or trying hard to make it look pretty.

tying shoe laces. where are you even going?

picking a flower. getting off the road and into a patch of grass just to pick a yellow wild flower, pressing it in a book, or putting it in a glass of water.

finally getting to bed. the cold bedsheets, closing your burning eyes, the small sounds of the city.

-c. 23.07.20 6.15pm

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The golden diadem of the Scythian princess Meda, found in the tomb of Philip II of Macedon. Aigai, Macedonia, Greece. 4th century BC [960x700]

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