Milk drunk, ca. 1895 — 1908. Source.
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Of all the luxuries it is possible to seek in the world, Nicky is greedy for contentment. He finds it in a dozen different places, scattered piecemeal, hour by hour. The trick, he discovered two centuries into his improbable life, is simply to look for it, to notice the sweet, quiet stillness inside his chest that means he is full. Like now, an hour into wakefulness while Joe still sleeps beside him, their bedroom filled with fragile morning light; like this, he thinks, stretching a hand up toward the ceiling as if he might walk his fingers along the meandering lines of cracked and ancient paint.
He is warm, and Joe feels warmer still beside him, curled toward him, his breath puffing softly against Nicky’s bare arm. He is not yet hungry; there is a glass of water on the bedside table, and Nicky is grateful to so easily be able to quench his thirst. The blankets on the bed are heavy; the flat is quiet; it’s too early yet for the traffic that passes on the street below to have become a constant hum. Beside him, Joe grumbles and turns on to his back, sighs and sleeps on, his mouth slightly open. Nicky smiles when Joe begins to snore.
The walls are pale blue; the door is wooden and stands ajar. There’s a chest of drawers against the wall that’s seen better days, on which sit dishes and bowls that Nicky can’t see but knows hold a watch, silver rings, a door key, a single stick of gum. The armchair that sits in a corner is green and the springs in the cushion are old and cranky, and Nicky can barely see the upholstery for the jeans and shirts and one stray sock piled there. If he lifts his head, if he rolls to the side, he'd see his own boots on the floor. But he doesn’t move; he thinks instead of the twist of fate or luck or destiny that put Joe in his bed, in his heart, in the deepest marrow of his bones, and only then does he turns to lie on his side and press his nose to Joe’s shoulder. He doesn’t speak. He is happy and still.
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Contentment, 1927, Maxfield Parrish (1870-1966)
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A contented heart is a calm sea in the midst of all storms.
—Anonymous
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Contentment
I long for this level of contentment. To be able to stand in front of a dinky, rundown shack with the love of your life, not knowing what the future will bring, but it's all good because you have each other...finally.
This show, I swear...
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Journalist: "What do you think is your greatest achievement?"
David Bowie: "Marrying my wife."
"But as a musician?"
"Nothing else matters."
[Classic Throwback]
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