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Jean-François Lauda, d1, oil on canvas, 48x60in, 2014

It’s stupid but I never realized there were different degrees of love. I thought that you would just fall, madly, deeply, and it would be over, and for every person that made you feel that way it would always be the same. But it’s not: you can be in love with someone and have it take you deeper and make you thicker and leave you insane and be in love with someone else and love with them is safe and comforting and glowing like the ember of the one you left behind. And one is not necessarily better than the other; you can end up with a safe and warm and comfortable love and still wonder about the other, wonder if you’ll ever feel love to that degree again, love that makes you cry and scream and hurt but also the fullest, most alive, happiest person that ever fucking existed. Or at least existed inside you. 

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Die Nibelungen: Kriemhild’s Revenge - Fritz Lang - 1924
Now, to pry into roots, to finger slime,
To stare, big-eyed Narcissus, into some spring
Is beneath all adult dignity. I rhyme
To see myself, to set the darkness echoing.
written by Seamus Heaney would have been 75 years old this month. We’re remembering him by looking at the language of his first full-length collection, Death of a Naturalist. (via oupacademic)
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Günther Uecker Rain 4  ::  Lucien Smith Two Sides of the Same Coin
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 Addie Wagenknecht Black Hawk Paint  ::  KATSU Black Magic