Perfectnumberthree:

24.

i think the saddest people always try their hardest to make people happy

because they know what it’s like to feel absolutely worthless

and they don’t want anybody else to feel like that

We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.

Dead Poets Society (1989) dir. Peter Weir, DoP John Seale

picture of God herself

This is no Westeros. On April 8, 2019, the Landsat 8 satellite acquired a scene of contrasts in Russia: a fire surrounded by ice.

Between chunks of frozen land and lakes in the Magadan Oblast district of Siberia, a fire burned and billowed smoke plumes that were visible from space.

Not much is known about the cause of the fire, east of the town of Evensk. Forest fires are common in this heavily forested region, and the season usually starts in April or May. Farmers also burn old crops to clear fields and replenish the soil with nutrients, also known as ‘slash and burn agriculture’; such fires occasionally burn out of control. Land cover maps, however, show that this fire region is mainly comprised of shrublands, not croplands.

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Lana Del Rey sur We Heart It. http://weheartit.com/entry/74910304/via/Erysipelaslolo

meadow whispers

instagram

You know what the saddest thing is? You showed him the deepest corners of your soul. But he closed up like you never fucking happened. His fingertips lingered on your skin. You got so lost in his ocean eyes and his magical touch. The little mischievous smile he put on as he stroked your hair like you were his one and only. The way he pulled you into his arms. You were all his. Divine kisses through your body set you on fire. Every grip was holy — every whisper was celestial — every word felt like love — every dot was connected — every emotion was raw. The world stopped just for us, two lovebirds sharing the same heart beat and rhythm. “ilysm. Souls collided and divided. And now you’re stranded. Silence of his is too damn deafening. Theft of heart. Theft of joy. “ifmy.”

Moose Country

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Arthur Conan Doyle, The Red-Headed League