Mount Etna blowing a smoke ring during volcanic eruptions.
Salvador Dalí, The Delightful Mount
tomorrow is our permanent address
and there they’ll scarcely find us (if they do,
we’ll move away still further: into now)
—E. E. Cummings
(Source: apoetreflects, via an-itinerant-poet)
"Relax. You will become an adult. You will figure out your career. You will find someone who loves you. You have a whole lifetime; time takes time. The only way to fail at life is to abstain."
"As a doctor, who saw disease growing and raging in bodies, he understood mortality better than the flowering of life. To him it seems a miracle that we should last so much as a single day. There is no antidote, he writes, against the opium of time. The winter sun shows how soon the light fades from the ash, how soon night enfolds us. Hour upon hour is added to the sum. Time grows old itself. Pyramids, arches, and obelisks are melting pillars of snow. Not even those who have found a place amidst the heavenly constellation have perpetuated their names: Nimrod is lost in Orion, and Osiris in the Dog Star. Indeed, old families last not three oaks. To set one’s name to a work gives no one a title to be remembered, for who knows how many of the best of men have gone without a trace? The inquiry of oblivion blindly scatters her poppyseed and when wretchedness falls upon us one summer’s day like snow, all we wish is to be forgotten."
W.G. Sebald, The Rings of Saturn