from the introduction to emily wilsons translation of the iliad
devour me (via)
i think names are such a delicate thing and we dont say each other’s names enough bc why else does it strike such a chord in me when ppl say my name as if i actually exist
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anyone else grieving & mourning & lamenting & kicked apart by nostalgia & going silently about their lives?
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The Apparition (detail), 1885
— by James Tissot
Will o the Wisp, 1888 by Lev Lerch
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it’s so funny when it affects you long-term
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