“If you don’t become the ocean, you’ll be seasick every day.”
― Leonard Cohen (R.I.P.)
photography
Inner fire, a photograph
Anybody, a photograph
Deviation, a photograph
Here, a photograph
5’s, A Photograph
“Even when she had to make some one a present of the kind called ‘useful,’ when she had to give an armchair or some table-silver or a walking-stick, she would choose ‘antiques,’ as though their long desuetude had effaced from them any semblance of utility and fitted them rather to instruct us in the lives of the men of other days than to serve the common requirements of our own.”
― Marcel Proust
They are a-changin, A Photograph
Dee, A Photograph
Bicycle bicycle bicycle, A Photograph
Or not to be, A Photograph
“To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and, by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub.”
― William Shakespeare
Most Agreeable, A Photograph
Understanding, A Photograph
Naïveté, A Photograph
Latency, A Photograph
The Slip, A Photograph
The Pioneer, A Photograph
Gently, A Photograph
Foreign Elements, A Photograph of Kyoto, Japan
Twin, A Photograph
Upstairs Window, A Photograph
Maybe, A Photograph
Howe Street Dog, A Photograph
Hidden Woman, A Photograph
Sufferer, A Photograph
Relative, A Photograph of Age
“We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.”
– Anaïs Nin
Seeing Things, A Photograph
Imagination, A Photograph of Art
Restless Urge, A Photograph
“…as the slow sea sucked at the shore and then withdrew, leaving the strip of seaweed bare and the shingle churned, the sea birds raced and ran upon the beaches. Then that same impulse to flight seized upon them too. Crying, whistling, calling, they skimmed the placid sea and left the shore. Make haste, make speed, hurry and begone; yet where, and to what purpose? The restless urge of autumn, unsatisfying, sad, had put a spell upon them and they must flock, and wheel, and cry; they must spill themselves of motion before winter came.”
– Daphne du Maurier