Saw My First Reactor Core. I Am A Changed Woman

Book Binding by PearFleur

A little in love with this video taken from my dorm window 🌩️

The math cafe is my favourite place to work because it has the best views and biggest blackboards

The chronicle of the monk Herbert of Reichenau for the year 1021 ends “My brother Werner was born on November 1.“ 

1021 was not an uneventful year. The emperor began a campaign into Italy. Illustrious abbots died. There was an earthquake. But Herbert took the time to note, at the end of the year, that his brother was born. 

Of such acts of tenderness is history made. 

"Have you ever had that feeling—that you'd like to go to a whole different place and become a whole different self?"

"I’m still wandering through the streets, looking, sitting by the sea, enjoying the sunshine. I am entirely alone. I don’t know anyone, no one knows me, and for me that is a great pleasure."

hanya yanagihara, a little life / haruki murakami, the wind-up bird chronicle / stand by me (1986), dir. rob reiner / donna tartt, the secret history / phoebe bridgers, i know the end / daniel clowes, ghost world / j.d. salinger, the catcher in the rye / nikos kazantzakis, from a letter to galatea kazantzaki / lora mathis, how to disappear in the modern age / moonlight (2016) dir. barry jenkins / richard siken, the torn-up road / sylvia plath, the bell jar

Sunrise

by Louise Glück

This time of year, the window boxes smell of the hills, the thyme and rosemary that grew there, crammed into the narrow spaces between the rocks and, lower down, where there was real dirt, competing with other things, blueberries and currants, the small shrubby trees the bees love— Whatever we ate smelled of the hills, even when there was almost nothing. Or maybe that’s what nothing tastes like, thyme and rosemary.

Maybe, too, that’s what it looks like— beautiful, like the hills, the rocks above the tree line webbed with sweet smelling herbs, the small plants glittering with dew—

It was a big event to climb up there and wait for dawn, seeing what the sun sees as it slides out from behind the rocks, and what you couldn’t see, you imagined;

your eyes would go as far as they could, to the river, say, and your mind would do the rest—

And if you missed a day, there was always the next, and if you missed a year, it didn’t matter, the hills weren’t going anywhere, the thyme and rosemary kept coming back, the sun kept rising, the bushes kept bearing fruit—

The streetlight’s off: that’s dawn here. It’s on: that’s twilight. Either way, no one looks up. Everyone just pushes ahead, and the smell of the past is everywhere, the thyme and rosemary rubbing against your clothes, the smell of too many illusions—

Between them, the hills and sky took up all the room. Whatever was left, that was ours for a while. But eventually the hills will take it back, give it to the animals. And maybe the moon will send the seas there, and where we lived will be a stream or river coiling around the base of the hills, paying the sky the compliment of reflection.

I went back but I didn’t stay. Everyone I cared about was gone, some dead, some disappeared into one of those places that don’t exist, the ones we dreamed about because we saw them from the top of the hills— I had to see if the fields were still shining, the sun telling the same lies about how beautiful the world is when all you need to know of a place is, do people live there. If they do, you know everything.

The hills are terrible, they hide the truth of the past. Green in summer, white when the snow falls.

First it was lonely but you get used to it… the silence, then you start to love it. I can hear the wind blowing over the rippling water on the loch… and the birds. I hear the world how it was meant to be heard.

Shetlands, BBC1

Here (1989) by Richard mcguire (raw magazine)