The Pessimist's Breakfast.The toast will burn it always does, a sign of fate written on the crusted blackThe Pessimist's Breakfast.
with butter. It looks like rain.
The yolk will break, good health gives way to pain, we all will die, the weight we lose
will be less than we gain.
So thought the pessimist at breakfast, then smiled.
Predicting the inevitable turning,
knowing what his fear allowed; that if every cloud has a silver lining then all those silver linings have a cloud.
Still life with trees.Still life with trees.Still life with trees.
A landscape with jagged branches
piled scarecrow heavy, sagging with December.
Clouds fallen heavily to blanket all the colour of the ground The sky littering the old brown and dark green
Brushed along with the wind flow crystals scatter in flowing mesmeric blusters. Plumes gyrate, feather, flounce off into spirals. The fall lessens and, hesitatingly, stops. Sometimes a solitary fleck meanders, lost, looking for the storm.
The sky brightens. The woods are sketched in charcoal on an infinity of br
ClarityClarityClarity
What does it mean? How can we hope to reach what this moment is, and can we understand? Does meaning lie in what we've heard or seen or why we scratch our names upon the beach when these, like all such marks, fade back to sand? Is this the clearness that wipes out where we've been?
We took the train here, paid memory the fare. The sleepy clack, the passing trees and poles, described our lives, the ordinary beat that falls and falls with what we strive to share, defining single parts connected by their wholes where minute and immense can someti
Alby's LodgeAlby's LodgeAlby's Lodge
A shed of old red brick, sagging
gap-tiled roof, walls swamped with clematis
and ivy. Flaking paint, dirt floor, rusty lanterns
on nails in the rafters, a brush hook, rabbit nets,
fenceposts with chopped points dipped
in creosote, a pruning arm, three shovels.
A place full of umbers dripped into the shadows
by the light that bled through the roof,
forming niches where Alby would rummage.
He smelled of hessian and ferrets, bread mashed in hot milk, apples. He had a way of reaching
into things so that a flat shadow would suddenly
I Find That I'm Not ThereWe lost the skyline. We stepped right off the map. Drifted into blank space and let the clocks relapse.I Find That I'm Not There
We laughed the rain down, slow burn on the lawn. Ghosts across the delta swallowed up the storm.
Sometimes I feel like a fist. Sometimes I am the color of air. Sometimes it's only afterwards I find that I'm not there.
In the dream, dusk. We walked beside the lake. We watched the sky move sideways and heard the evening break.
--
the sexth sence "i see bouncing boobs"
all [[ Hentai ART ]] inside
Thank you kindly for the recent fav!
--
obsess much?
art acct's ~ ~Moon-Willow & ~Justbeautyxx
--
"Wait! I'm having one of those things! You know... A head ache with pictures!?"
"An idea?"
"YES!"
--
#thePhotoShop | #LITFactory
--
--
Kabu
My give a dAmn's busted ...
--
" There is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in." - Anthem, Leonard Cohen
--
On deal la mort au nom de l' amour ; On fait l'amour on donne la mort. Triste epoque !
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