( via / pic by me )

Beelzebufo.

      “The Fountain

All through the deep blue night
   The fountain sang alone;
It sang to the drowsy heart
   Of the satyr carved in stone.

The fountain sang and sang,
   But the satyr never stirred–
Only the great white moon
   In the empty heaven heard.

The fountain sang and sang
   While on the marble rim
The milk-white peacocks slept,
   And their dreams were strange and dim.

Bright dew was on the grass,
   And on the ilex, dew,
The dreamy milk-white birds
   Were all a-glisten, too.

The fountain sang and sang
   The things one cannot tell;
The dreaming peacocks stirred
   And the gleaming dew-drops fell.”

—Sara Teasdale, Stars To-night (1930)

"Patriarchal societies are fueled, at their deepest root, by a fiendishly simple maneuver: separating women from each other."

A hundred photographs of stairways.

"The gothic, in my view, is the story of the dead coming back, told in a thousand decaying houses."