organt:

“December’s language is imprecise grief and drunkenness.”

— Nelly Sachs, tr. by Eric Plattner, from The Seeker: “Enigmas of Night,”
(via elm-and-oak)

seaymph:

“Forest nymphs, immortal daughters of woodland streams, dark, divine,”

— Moero, tr. by Josephine Balmer, from Women Poets; “Cleomenes’ Statues,”
(via loveage-moondream)

saphore:

”There is no place for grief in a house which serves the Muse” - Sappho

anorakbaby:

gone girl - gillian flynn

violentwavesofemotion:

“Flatlands,”
by Chelsea Wolfe

lemortdarthur:

Girls don’t like boys, girls like conducting a séance in their bedroom at 3AM and learning dead languages.

scheharazade:

work song by hozier but you’re standing at the edge of the forest on a warm summer evening. the sun hasn’t quite set yet but the shadows are long and deep. music filters up from the earth. the grass is soft and cool under your feet. you have salt in your pockets. you think you might go home soon.