But then, art is not the representation of beautiful things. Art is the beautiful representation of things.
It's not just flowers and nude girls, it's also the bleak renaissance paintings of judgemenet day, and the sorrowful, desperate gazes on the crucified Christ's face in paintings and statues.

.

Can I buy extra 5 hours for my 24-hour day?

Actually yes, but you can buy it only with sleeping hours :”)

they pile up as debt :")

My prayer is not the whimpering of a beggar nor a confession of love. Nor is it the trivial reckoning of a small tradesman: Give me and I shall give you.
My prayer is the report of a soldier to his general: This is what I did today, this is how I fought to save the entire battle in my own sector, these are the obstacles I found, this is how I plan to fight tomorrow.
My God and I are horsemen galloping in the burning sun or under drizzling rain. Pale, starving, but unsubdued, we ride and converse.

- Saviors of God, Nikos Kazantzakis

The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast,
Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone,
Bright eyes, accomplish’d shape, and lang’rous waist!
Faded the flower and all its budded charms,
Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,
Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,
Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise –
Vanish’d unseasonably at shut of eve,
When the dusk holiday – or holinight
Of fragrant-curtain’d love begins to weave
The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight,
But, as I’ve read love’s missal through to-day,
He’ll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.

- John Keats, the day is gone

For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise


- William Shakespeare

كَتَبتُ وَلَم أَكتُب إِلَيكَ وَإِنَّما
كَتَبتُ إِلى روحي بِغَيرِ كِتابِ

وَذَلِكَ أَنَّ الروحَ لا فَرقَ بَينَها
وَبَينَ مُحَبّيها بِفَصلِ خِطابِ

وَكُلُّ كِتابٍ صادِرٍ مِنكَ وارِدٌ
إِلَيكَ بِلا رَدِّ الجَوابِ جَوابي

- الحسين بن منصور الحلاج

حديثُهُ أو حَديثٌ عنْهُ يُطْرِبُنِي
هذا إذا غابَ أو هذا إذا حَضَرَا

كِلاَهُمَا حَسَنٌ عندي أُسَرُّ به
لكنَّ أحلاهُما ما وافَقَ النّظرا

- سلطان العاشقين، ابن الفارض

بانَ العَزاءُ وَبانَ الصَبرُ إِذ بانوا
بانوا وُهُم في سُوَيدا القَلبِ سُكّانُ

- محيي الدين بن عربي

ظبيٌ تَغارُ الشمسُ من حُسنهِ
ماءُ الحَيا من خَدِّهِ يَقْطُرُ

مُبتَسِمٌ عن جوهرٍ رائعٍ
يَفوحُ منهُ المسكُ والعنبرُ

إذا مَشَى أخجلَ سُمرَ القَنَا
وحارَ فيه عقلُ مَن ينظُرُ

ما فيهِ من عَيبٍ سِوَى أنَّه
إذا أَردْنَا وصلَه يَهجُرُ

- أُسامة بن منقذ

الليلة عندي مهرجان أدبي

عَتيقٌ كالهلالِ إذا تَبدَّى
لسارِي اللّيلِ مِن تحتِ الغُيومِ

تقولُ إذا به الأترابُ حَفُّوا
أهذا البدرُ ما بَينَ النّجومِ

- أُسامة بن منقذ

The best aphrodisiacs are words. The G-spot is in the ears. He who looks for it below there is wasting his time.

- Isabel Allende

Describe the tongue of the woodpecker

The tongue of a woodpecker can extend more than three times the length of its bill. When not in use, it retracts into the skull and its cartilage-like structure continues past the jaw to wrap around the bird’s head and then curve down to its nostril. In addition to digging out grubs from a tree, the long tongue protects the woodpecker’s brain. When the bird smashes its beak repeatedly into tree bark, the force exerted on its head is ten times what would kill a human. But its bizarre tongue and supporting structure act as a cushion, shielding the brain from shock.

There is no reason you actually need to know any of this. It is information that has no real utility for your life, just as it had none for Leonardo. But I thought maybe, after reading this book, that you, like Leonardo, who one day put “Describe the tongue of the woodpecker” on one of his eclectic and oddly inspiring to-do lists, would want to know. Just out of curiosity. Pure curiosity.