sarah, plain and tall.

He said, "It's all in your head," and I said, "So's everything" - But he didn't get it.

“Crawdad Hole” by Doc Watson.

It’s hard to pick just one song, but this is my favorite. RIP Doc.

Love Song

How should I keep my soul
from touching yours? How shall I
lift it up beyond you to other things?
Ah, I would gladly hide it
in darkness with something lost
in some silent foreign place
that doesn’t tremble when your deeps stir.
Yet whatever touches you and me
blends us together the way a bow’s stroke
draws one voice from two strings.
Across what instrument are we stretched taut?
And what player holds us in his hand?
O sweet song.

Rainer Maria Rilke, in New Poems, trans. Edward Snow

Do I even have to say anything?

Do I even have to say anything?

(Source: artssake)

Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.

T.S. Eliot, from “Easter Coker” from Four Quartets

(Source: awritersruminations, via word-digest)

jesuisperdu:

the smiths - please, please, please, let me get what i want [audio only]

Happy Mother’s Day to my own.

Happy Mother’s Day to my own.

(Source: obeyjetss, via feedwell)

There’s an empty space inside my heart

Where the weeds take root

So now I’ll set you free

I’ll set you free

Slowly we unfurl

As lotus flowers

‘Cause all I want is the moon upon a stick

Just to see what if

Just to see what is

I can’t kick your habit

Just to fill your fast ballooning head

Listen to your heart

“Lotus Flower” - Radiohead.

(Source: thisfoldedmind, via oldtimefriend)


Forsyth Park Savannah, GA

Forsyth Park
Savannah, GA

(Source: seersuckerandmagnolias)

It’s always like this.
I catch their scent and
old feelings come around.

Wordless:
still, we know one another,
or should.

All I want is to take my quilts,
spread them beside the porch rail,

and deep in the night,
at ease together,
speak of longing, of love.”


-Xue Tao, (transl. by Jeanne Larsen) excerpt from “Peonies

(via ahuntersheart)

(Source: pleasebebrave, via ahuntersheart)