"No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.”
― Vladimir Nabokov

Spider eyes, Miki Kim

Volgograd, Russia

A Tree Sees - Julia Lillard

9/11/89

Elisabeth Tonnard, They Were Like Poetry (After a suggestion by James Joyce), Leerdam, 2014, Edition of 100 numbered copies

The Kiss of Death, Poblenou Cemetery, Barcelona

There was madness in any direction

We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and—in spite of True Romance magazines—we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. I do not say lonely—at least, not all the time—but essentially, and finally, alone. This is what makes your self-respect so important, and I don’t see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness.”

— Hunter S. Thompson, The Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman, 1955-1967

David Bowie, making The Man Who Fell to Earth, 1975, by Steve Schapiro. Shots from this scene were also part of the artwork for the cover of Bowie’s 1976 album Station To Station

Hiromi Suzuki, Five typewriter poems, «Utsanga», No. 21, October 2019

I dedicate these pages written with blood to the love, pain and death of my mother.

D'Annunzio, Notturno (1916)

The original handwritten lyrics to Joy Division’s “Isolation” by Ian Curtis

Going underground, Mike Goldwater

When it comes it's so, so, disappointing