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Pet (2016) dir. Carles Torrens

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faceofabotticelliangel:

      whom’st?

told u not to watch finding nemo too much babe. now ur talking to the aquarium fish like a fool:(

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Veranika Antsipava photographed by Vanina Sorrenti for Numéro Tokyo June 2007

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bassed on this (x)

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               ❝  BUT BETWEEN ME & SYBELLE there lies a sympathy which sometimes                eludes mortals and immortals for the space of their entire lives. I know Sybelle.                I know her. I knew her when I first heard her play, and I know her now, and I                wouldn't be here with you if she were not under the protection of Marius. I will                during the space of Sybelle's life never be parted from her, and there is nothing                she can ever ask of me that I shall not give. ❞

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FACEOFABOTTICELLIANGEL.

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       The white perfumed bubbles presently filling up the bathtub were in such MASS that the thin, pearl skinned girl inside of it would be nearly up to her ears if Armand hadn’t taken the time to situate a towel behind her back, giving her the best comfort he could provide to keep her head out the water. He had grown to love providing for her, as he had precious few others before her. There was LOVE in giving, in the gentle act of helping others. And Sybelle, the beautiful girl with wet blonde streaks sticking precariously to her supple skin, she needed only SMILE to let Armand know he was doing it well. They bathed together often enough, he in or outside of the tub as he was now, delicately running the water over his companion’s limbs and diligently scrubbing for any dirt that stayed–to which, there rarely was any, so carefully kept did he think she was. She didn’t seem to be bothered by the coldness of his skin, nor the hardness of it. Only seemed to enjoy his COMPANY, and he tried not to press her mind for answers even when he wasn’t sure. In the hall, Benji was playing one of those new CDs he’d been given off the streetside. Could it possibly be anything but an IDEAL situation? The boy hummed pleasantly to think on it, a song from centuries forgotten suddenly on his cupid lips.

               Being as she was, a girl as fresh as spring, who wore the scent of pressed linen like it was perfume, Sybelle Griswold was routinely called Manhattan’s most pristine girl ... even if it was through no great effort from Sybelle herself. Indeed, she had little mind for personal grooming in the same way she had little mind for anything else outside the piano, and were it not for Armand and Benji’s painting and spending and doting over her, like a collector’s doll, the grime of this old city would’ve gobbled her up the same way it had with most everyone, and she would’ve worn a handful of rags for a dress without ever noticing it. 

It was Armand who lead her to the bath as he had many times before, Armand who fluffed the water with bubbles that smelled lingeringly of lemon, who scrubbed her cheeks and shoulders pink with a mixture of exorbitantly expensive honey and hard, hard sugar. The sweetness of it coated her lips, and while wondering if it was okay enough to eat, she leaned her cheek into his palm. 

“That’s a pretty song.” She followed along three, four notes of it, thinking of the proper key and the music’s movement, and wondering when she’d be at her piano again to play it, just for him. “Please tell me about it.”

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Carleton Grant, Incantation, 1895

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concept: turkish delight instead of pomegranates

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by  Kelly Schreiber

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What are the words you do not yet have? What do you need to say? What are the tyrannies you swallow day by day and attempt to make your own, until you will sicken and die of them, still in silence?

Audre Lorde, Sister Outsider (41)

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how are you so quiet about it? your sadness i mean. how do you hold it in your chest, in your eyes, in your teeth without letting it speak; how does it stay still?

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You are the Self-transfiguring, looming limitless upward out of fate, lone figure uncelebrated, unlamented, unwritten like the wildwood of the unknown.

Rainer Maria Rilke, The Book of Hours (via astranemus)

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Preludio F. Liszt 8 Juin, 1841