pumpkinghostuniverse

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Saturday sketching.

ig: emilyeverard

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lets escape to the great sunshine

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been a little obsessed with avocados and sunflowers (socks on sale on my Depop: @ tigerssjaw)

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this is legit everything.

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black death

„I know that man is capable of great deeds. But if he isn’t capable of great emotion, he leaves me cold”

The Plague – A. Camus

 *

days bleeding out hours

a constant hemorrhage of time blurring once clear vision

when did those limbs start to rot?

skin and flesh turning black?

 *

they called plague doctors

but no herb or flower in their becks could suppress the reek of death

heavy cloaks floating indifferently as they left in silence

eyes cold and proud behind their crow-like masks

necrophagous birds

 *

light up your torches and burn this city of misery

burn those who are bleeding out darkness and throwing up pain in emesis of woe

so you can believe that you’re safe

take away your fake mourning and leave us here in peace

decaying children of fire that now are cold ash

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me and Virgin Mary

lungs-burning icy air - a fiery breath of the season of short days

glassy crystals of ice linger on Virgin’s Mary stone-cold face

frozen tears

silent reminescents of shameful pain

we weep together - me and Virgin Mary

water and blood mixing in our tears

diamonds and rubies falling down on dirty ground

chill pinches swollen faces

nothing but stillness between us now - me and Virgin Mary

glance fixated on pale gray skies

she stands barefoot on marble sepulcher

I rest beside in my heavy shoes

breathing out billows of cool steam

just like a blown off candle

we stay silent like this - me and Virgin Mary

divine and sinful

snowflakes of hosts swirling above

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me: *gets touched by random wave of sadness*

me: so, this is what poets of Romanticism felt

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ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭* ੈ✩‧₊˚  this angel is here to keep you safe from trouble~

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And I will wait for you.

Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov | Caravaggio, Bacchus/The Lute Player/Saint Jerome Writing/Young Sick Bacchus (details)

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“The Haunted Lady or The Ghost in the Looking Glass”,  Punch, July 1863artist: John Tenniel

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🏹 still in love with my pisces necklace from @mejuri ☁️ i’m one of those crazy people that are super into their own sign, so having a necklace that screams pisces helps a bit. 👋🏻

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Cleopatra, details, 1524 - 1526, by Giampietrino (Giovanni Pietro Rizzoli) Oil painting. Bucknell University Art Gallery, Lewisburg, Pennsylvania. High Renaissance.

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1910s-1920s perfume bottles.

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Hello my friends, I’m alive. How have You been? 

#that was a long slumber #but i'm resurrected now #hello again

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What if the next time I open up my eyes I will wake up somewhere else, as a completely different person, not remembering the life I am leading right now? What if this is the reason we sometimes feel like we have already been somewhere, seen something, felt a sensation that should be totally new to us? That when we accidentally run into a stranger we feel like we have met before?

If so then I want to wake up sitting on the rooftop of a skyscraper somewhere in Tokyo in the middle of the night, with lighten up cigarette in my hand. Feeling the cold breeze on my face I stare at the flickreing neon lights of the city which never sleeps and I listen closely to its strong pulse composed of million different sounds.

Or maybe I would be living on the top of an old lighthouse somewhere by the deep blue sea. Wind blowing softly through my hair as I stand up barefoot from my bed to close the windows. The air smells like salt and upcoming storm.

Maybe I would wake up as an astronaut. Traveling between the empty spaces between the stars, getting to know the colors and shapes of planets and moons never before seen by a human eye. Not knowing what time of day it is, because days don’t exist here in space.

So maybe the next day I wake up I will appreciate every tiny moment, because that life may be just a blink, not even a mere second that I will never be able to experience again, that I won’t even be able to remember the next time I open my eyes.

ivory decay

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Arthur Hacker (1858-1919)