Franz Kafka (via fernsandmoss)
I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper
sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes,
new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind,
and the old things go, not one lasts.
Sonnet 8 bu William Shakespeare (via dailyshakespeare)
wisps of clouds -
speaking to each other
the path I make
in tall field grass
… doppler crows
a singular face
in a crowded room