@sanctorium.bsky.social
photography, writing
header: Alice Oswald, Falling Awake
header: Alice Oswald, Falling Awake
Pinned
I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.
Sylvia Plath, The Morning Song
A far sea moves in my ear.
Sylvia Plath, The Morning Song
Back to a few friends watching Slow Horses with yum noshes and excellent reds. Good night, sleep deep.
November 13, 2025 at 7:36 PM
Back to a few friends watching Slow Horses with yum noshes and excellent reds. Good night, sleep deep.
Illusion of Always
Fragment, 8th century
Fragment, 8th century
November 13, 2025 at 7:13 PM
Illusion of Always
Fragment, 8th century
Fragment, 8th century
I want to write a novel about Silence, he said; the things people don't say.
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
November 13, 2025 at 6:36 PM
I want to write a novel about Silence, he said; the things people don't say.
Virginia Woolf
Virginia Woolf
My eyes were glued on life and they were full of tears.
Jack Kerouac
Jack Kerouac
November 13, 2025 at 3:15 PM
My eyes were glued on life and they were full of tears.
Jack Kerouac
Jack Kerouac
Jerzy Kosinski, Blind Date
November 13, 2025 at 3:07 PM
Jerzy Kosinski, Blind Date
A multitude of small delights constitute happiness.
Baudelaire
Baudelaire
November 13, 2025 at 2:30 PM
A multitude of small delights constitute happiness.
Baudelaire
Baudelaire
There are moments in life, when the heart is so full of emotion
That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble
Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret,
Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together.
Longfellow
That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble
Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret,
Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together.
Longfellow
November 13, 2025 at 2:14 PM
There are moments in life, when the heart is so full of emotion
That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble
Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret,
Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together.
Longfellow
That if by chance it be shaken, or into its depths like a pebble
Drops some careless word, it overflows, and its secret,
Spilt on the ground like water, can never be gathered together.
Longfellow
The poetry of earth is never dead.
Keats
Keats
November 13, 2025 at 6:45 AM
The poetry of earth is never dead.
Keats
Keats
The most sensitive musical instrument is the human soul. The next is the human voice. One must purify the soul until it begins to sound.
Arvo Pärt
Arvo Pärt
November 12, 2025 at 5:13 PM
The most sensitive musical instrument is the human soul. The next is the human voice. One must purify the soul until it begins to sound.
Arvo Pärt
Arvo Pärt
He who hears the rippling of rivers in these degenerate days will not utterly despair.
Thoreau
Thoreau
November 12, 2025 at 1:46 PM
He who hears the rippling of rivers in these degenerate days will not utterly despair.
Thoreau
Thoreau
A sane person to an insane society must appear insane.
Vonnegut
Cy Twombly
Vonnegut
Cy Twombly
November 12, 2025 at 1:32 PM
A sane person to an insane society must appear insane.
Vonnegut
Cy Twombly
Vonnegut
Cy Twombly
You really only know when you know little. Doubt grows with knowledge.
Goethe
Goethe
November 12, 2025 at 12:57 PM
You really only know when you know little. Doubt grows with knowledge.
Goethe
Goethe
You become what you give your attention to.
Epictetus
Unfinished panels ca. 1660
Epictetus
Unfinished panels ca. 1660
November 12, 2025 at 12:53 PM
You become what you give your attention to.
Epictetus
Unfinished panels ca. 1660
Epictetus
Unfinished panels ca. 1660
The soul is the weariest part of the body.
Paul Bowles
Paul Bowles
November 12, 2025 at 12:32 PM
The soul is the weariest part of the body.
Paul Bowles
Paul Bowles
What you remember saves you.
W. S. Merwin
W. S. Merwin
November 12, 2025 at 12:30 PM
What you remember saves you.
W. S. Merwin
W. S. Merwin
a choice: to think for yourself or immerse into the mainstream
November 12, 2025 at 12:28 PM
a choice: to think for yourself or immerse into the mainstream
We do not have too much intellect and too little soul, but too little intellect in matters of the soul.
Musil
Musil
November 12, 2025 at 12:23 PM
We do not have too much intellect and too little soul, but too little intellect in matters of the soul.
Musil
Musil
soon evening party: live synth pop and all things wild mushrooms (pâté, tartlets, galette, burgers and pies)
November 11, 2025 at 3:46 PM
soon evening party: live synth pop and all things wild mushrooms (pâté, tartlets, galette, burgers and pies)
Poetry might be defined as the clear expression of mixed feelings.
W.H. Auden
W.H. Auden
November 11, 2025 at 1:12 PM
Poetry might be defined as the clear expression of mixed feelings.
W.H. Auden
W.H. Auden
Poetry may make us from time to time a little more aware of the deeper, unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves.
T. S. Eliot
T. S. Eliot
November 11, 2025 at 1:10 PM
Poetry may make us from time to time a little more aware of the deeper, unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves.
T. S. Eliot
T. S. Eliot
What is necessary, after all, is only this: solitude, vast inner solitude. To walk inside yourself and meet no one for hours—that is what you must be able to attain.
Rilke
Joseph Beuys
Rilke
Joseph Beuys
November 11, 2025 at 1:04 PM
What is necessary, after all, is only this: solitude, vast inner solitude. To walk inside yourself and meet no one for hours—that is what you must be able to attain.
Rilke
Joseph Beuys
Rilke
Joseph Beuys
the golden bee I flit about on books is missing and I only imagine
November 11, 2025 at 10:26 AM
the golden bee I flit about on books is missing and I only imagine
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again.
Sylvia Plath
Zao Wou-Ki, 1962
Sylvia Plath
Zao Wou-Ki, 1962
November 11, 2025 at 10:22 AM
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again.
Sylvia Plath
Zao Wou-Ki, 1962
Sylvia Plath
Zao Wou-Ki, 1962
with coffee and noting dreams
November 11, 2025 at 8:50 AM
with coffee and noting dreams