Simon Dubreuil - Iceland, 2013

Ivan Aivazovsky - Rainbow (1848)

Dragons of Middle-earth

“So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their endings.” ― J.R.R. Tolkien


It has begun.


olga krayevska

There’s no such thing as ruining your
life. Life’s a pretty resilient thing, it turns out.

The Undomestic Goddess, Sophie Kinsella (via figureight)


Illustrations based on Doctor Who 2005 episodes. (tbc

This’s actually an old project I made last year, now I’m trying to remake them and add some new pieces. Not finished yet:D

Book Meme

I got tagged by septembriseur (I presume for this meme and not the fic meme, because I don’t read enough fic to do that properly). I was actually thinking about books that are important to me recently, as I emptied my shelves into boxes to be shipped to the UK. Which books did I want with me on the other side of the world? I found I was reaching for those that I might not necessarily want to read, but that I simply wanted on my shelves: the ones whose spines reflect of all of the past selves I’ve ever been.

Also I included a few series here, even though the meme seems to specify singular texts. What can I say? I just really love serial fiction. 

1. Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, Susanna Clarke

2. The Farseer Trilogy, Robin Hobb

3. The City and The City, China Mieville

4. Atlas of Emotion: Journeys in Art, Architecture and Film, Guiliana Bruno

5. Fun Home, Alison Bechdel

6. Will You Please Be Quiet, Please?, Raymond Carver

7. The Sandman, Neil Gaiman

8. Genesis, Michel Serres

9. The Dark Tower, Stephen King

10. Green Sense: The Aesthetics of Plants, Place and Language, John Charles Ryan

I’m tagging bifurism, capturedraindrops, elucipher, fireflydreams, insertpalindromehere, katzcats, petrichorals, postscriptforfinales, thesilverdevastation, and anyone else who hasn’t done it and wants to. 

There is a song the body sings to itself
about time’s arrow, that has pierced
Its sentimental shining heart: about the eternal
flow of fire over the medulla oblongata,
And the oceanic backwash of lymph
in the cells’ interstices. Call that song an angel.
Call it space. The body sings, and does not know
or care about the corrosive dark matter
Sealed in burial urns. The body sings, and when it stops
for breath, nothing sings back its harmony.

T. R. Hummer, “Maria Ranier Rilke, 1875-1926,” from Urn: Poems (Diode Editions, 2014) (via A Poet Reflects)

What if your future was the past?