Be Poetic. If You Find The Way The Light Falls Through Your Window And Onto Your Bedroom Wall Pretty,

THE GARDEN

Why am i wheezing at this

“When I love I become liquid light”

— Nizar Qabbani, from “When I Love” (via oiseauperdu)

Booker / Boo - Nineteen - Any pronouns - Gemini - Canadian-Vietnamese - Writer

Hello there! This is a personal and storage blog where I reblog whatever that I like, and that I associate with myself and anything and anyone from my universe and personal novel projects. This blog mainly consists of content on mythology, astronomy, astrology, folklores, and religion. Sensitive themes are to be present, but will always be tagged accordingly. At times, I will share my creations on here from graphics, writings, to character studies, and more; I kindly ask to please do not steal anything that I make from here. Do not interact if you are racist, terf, anti-LGBTQ+, supporter of pedophilia / incest / rape, etcetera. Thank you for stopping by and may you have a wonderful day / night. Remember to always keep moving forward. <3

For my 3D production class I had to create a three shot short that was a remake of an existing movie scene- with muppets. I ran out of time to do the particle water effects, but this is basically Pacific Rim anyway.

i love this show

Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ ✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑ [source: milo_the_toller on instagram]

Cities are smells: Acre is the smell of iodine and spices. Haifa is the smell of pine and wrinkled sheets. Moscow is the smell of vodka on ice. Cairo is the smell of mango and ginger. Beirut is the smell of the sun, sea, smoke, and lemons. Paris is the smell of fresh bread, cheese, and derivations of enchantment. Damascus is the smell of jasmine and dried fruit. Tunis is the smell of night musk and salt. Rabat is the smell of henna, incense and honey. A city that cannot be known by its smell is unreliable. Exiles have a shared smell: the smell of longing for something else; a smell that remembers another smell. A painting, nostalgic that guides you, like a worn tourist map, to the smell of the original place. A smell is a memory and a setting sun. Sunset, here, is beauty rebuking the stranger. But to love the sunset is not, as they say, one of the attributes of exile.

Mahmoud Darwish, In the Presence of Absence (via yesyes)

Ernest Hemingway, The Snows of Kilimanjaro