Boulevards

You are the sky, everything else is just weather.


Sophie. 21. Sydney.


Leaving the plains by Alessio Albi on Flickr.

"Winter is there, outside, is here in me:
Drapes the planets with snow, deepens the ice on the moon,
Darkens the darkness that was already darkness.
The mind too has its snows, its slippery paths.
"
Conrad Aiken, from Preludes to Attitude

"If you remember me, then I don’t care if everyone else forgets."
Haruki Murakami, from Kafka on the Shore

untitled by sinister kid on Flickr.

untitled by Seren Coşkun on Flickr.

"People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in the ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic."
Diane Setterfield, from The Thirteenth Tale

untitled by ClaraNebeling on Flickr.

"Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones."
Haruki Murakami, from Kafka on the Shore

Twilight by Taylor.Chan on Flickr.

"She turned away, but with the autumn weather
Compelled my imagination many days,
Many days and many hours:
Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.
"
T.S. Eliot, from “La Figlia Che Piange”

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