( via / me )

"Then he dismissed him: 'And now you may go, l’audience est finie. Je n’ai plus rien à vous dire'." (via @aliner)

"...it seemed to him that he would be the sorriest old bindlestiff wearing a coat of so many tatters, so many rags and patches covering so many holes that his coat was not his own, for his was a coat of holes, and he would carry all his worldly goods over his shoulder in his black handkerchief tied to his stick or cane, and all the dogs of creation would bark at him, nipping at his heels." --Miss Mackintosh via

Red Sprites with Lone Tree.

I found out, Heraclitus, how long you had been dead;
you weren't that sad philosopher, but a satellite of the Pleiade.
Unless there's lurking, somewhere in the desert, bits we've missed,
your "Nightingales" are gone as though they never did exist.

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AI BAUTEN.