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Pure Lightheartedness
Fast by the window ! Ah! it comes nearer ...
Sweetness fills the air ...
I see my bliss at hand,the town, the lake are here;
I catch the Afternoon Light by the gleam-lighted Lake; I seek the True Affinities of Soul ...
Thin mists are spread and upfurl'd in the stir of the forces ...
Stillness spreads a charm,my soul conforms,enhances the bliss, ...
Everlasting beauty,lakes,seasons,times,reflections ...
Let all remind the soul of heaven; our slack devotion needs them all ...
Such was November in Lugano Pre-Alps
♥ "I can no other make but thanks,and thanks, and ever thanks..." ♥
Pure Lightheartedness ...
I see my bliss at hand,the town, the lake are here;
I catch the Afternoon Light by the gleam-lighted Lake; I seek the True Affinities of Soul ...
Thin mists are spread and upfurl'd in the stir of the forces ...
Sweetness fills the air ; Stillness spreads a charm ; my Soul conforms,enhances the bliss ...
Everlasting beauty,lakes,seasons,times,reflections ...
Let all remind the soul of heaven; our slack devotion needs them all ...
Such was November in Lugano Pre-Alps ..
♥ ღ Grateful Thanks my Flickr Stars for your visits & comments ღ ♥
"He who climbs above the cares of this world, and turns his face to his God, has found the sunny side of life."
-- Charles Spurgeon
A lone tree stands like a memory etched in the sky, its bare branches spreading into the stillness. The land sleeps beneath a faded winter light, and in the distance, a solitary figure walks—small against the quiet vastness. The horizon is a blur of forgotten time, where earth and sky no longer argue about where one ends.
Light spills like memory across her skin.
The dust floats unbothered, the silence rests easy.
Nothing moves, yet something lingers.
A room held in its own breath —
and she, simply part of it.
🎵 Stephan Moccio - The Wanderer
the place: Frogmore
Sous l’arbre voilé,
La mésange douce se pose,
Souffle de douceur.
In a misty tree,
The gentle titmouse settles,
Whisper of pure calm.
Sous les verts feuillages,
La mésange douce se pose,
Souffle de tendresse.
Under green foliage,
The gentle titmouse lands,
Breath of tenderness.
Sous les verts feuillages,
La mésange douce se pose,
Souffle de tendresse.
Under green foliage,
The gentle titmouse lands,
Breath of tenderness.
beneath the soft curve of centuries-old stone, a lone figure bends toward the light—slow, deliberate, caught in a rhythm older than the hallway itself. her shadow, delicate and sure, traces memory across the cobbled floor as time stands still at the threshold.
he looks toward the light, but carries the darkness with grace. a portrait of quiet strength and unanswered questions — suspended somewhere between what is and what could be.
the path climbs, half in light, half in shadow. the walls, worn by time, lead the way to something unseen, a moment beyond the frame. a figure stands at the crest, burdened or weightless—it's impossible to tell. the light decides, the darkness confirms.
shadows stretch like silent witnesses, consuming the ground, swallowing details, leaving only patterns of what was. the silence here is deafening, the geometry precise. in this place, the world feels measured, but the future remains uncertain.
through the round embrace of shadow, a palm stands like a cathedral spire against the pale sky of palma, while a lone figure drifts beneath its arching leaves, a quiet witness to the poetry of summer’s stillness
sitting in the dim glow of a late friday afternoon, christopher reads. the world around him fades into shadow, but the pages reflect the light. his fingers rest on the spine of a well-worn book, a bridge between past and present. a watch glints on his wrist, measuring time he no longer counts. behind him, the quiet hum of palma de mallorca—footsteps, distant voices, the scent of old paper and ink. his store, a sanctuary of literature, waits patiently. in this moment, he is not a bookseller, not an owner. just a reader lost in a world within worlds.
captured through the café window in berlin mitte, this image reveals a young man immersed in his own thoughts, separated from the bustling world outside. the warm reflections and soft colors of the café atmosphere evoke a sense of calm and introspection, as if he’s momentarily detached from his surroundings. the glass creates a quiet barrier between observer and observed, between outside and inside, while the light gently highlights the contours of his face and hand. this moment of silent reflection tells a small, personal story amidst the big city, as if the world around him has paused for just a second.
she sat on a bench, scrolling, exhaling, lost in a thought she didn’t share. the smoke curled between us, vanishing before it could settle. a glance—direct, unreadable, gone in a second. plaça del rosari, a fleeting moment given, not taken.
she holds the cigarette like a thought not yet spoken — suspended, unfinished. the smoke curls into the dusk with the grace of something that remembers how to vanish. it’s not about rebellion. it’s about time slowing down just enough to breathe in stillness and exhale a whisper.
the man sat in his van, a pause between moments, his thoughts stretching further than the horizon. sunlight filtered through the glass, catching his worn face, etching lines of experience into shadow and light. the jacket bore the logo of labor, a quiet emblem of work and perseverance. outside, life moved—waves brushed the shore, the day rolled on—but here, in this stillness, was a story untold. the same hand that bore the fierce face of a tattooed leopard now rested steady on the wheel, a mirror of quiet resilience.
she holds the cigarette like a thought not yet spoken — suspended, unfinished. the smoke curls into the dusk with the grace of something that remembers how to vanish. it’s not about rebellion. it’s about time slowing down just enough to breathe in stillness and exhale a whisper.
in the hush between light and shadow, a photographer lifts her camera — not in reflex, but in reckoning. her gaze arcs toward the viewfinder, already composing something just beyond the frame. caught mid-thought, mid-breath, she is both subject and seer. this image holds stillness like a held breath.
captured through the café window in berlin mitte, this image reveals a young man immersed in his own thoughts, separated from the bustling world outside. the warm reflections and soft colors of the café atmosphere evoke a sense of calm and introspection, as if he’s momentarily detached from his surroundings. the glass creates a quiet barrier between observer and observed, between outside and inside, while the light gently highlights the contours of his face and hand. this moment of silent reflection tells a small, personal story amidst the big city, as if the world around him has paused for just a second.
Golden hour breaks through brooding clouds above a calm bend of the Mystic River, casting radiant beams across the wooded shoreline. Reflections ripple gently beneath the sky’s warm glow, framed by leafy silhouettes and a quiet riverside fence. A serene summer evening in coastal Connecticut.
a man floats across a slice of madrid light, his posture heavy, expression drawn inward. the shadows cradle him like a stage curtain held open just long enough for a silent gesture. his own shadow stretches forward — sharper, more certain than he is.
beneath layers of grit and wallpaint, a man sits like stone under summer skies. his eyes, hidden but not blind, hold the weight of cities and silence. framed by his own rhythm, he remains unshaken—equal parts legend and local.
They wait for boarding.
She’s already gone —
to a memory, a place, a person with no departure time.
Fujifilm X-T20
Fujinon XF 56mm/f1.2
The shot feels to me like a still from a movie — somewhere between Wes Anderson precision and Edward Hopper loneliness.
“You can’t go on like you’re going to start really living one day, like all this is some preamble to some great life that’s going to magically appear. I’m a firm believer that you have to create your own miracles. Don’t hold out that there’s something better waiting on the other side. It doesn’t work that way.”
— Perry Moore
the air smelled of salt and damp stones. the sea had been restless for days, throwing waves against the rocks as if trying to break free from its own borders. but now, for a moment, it seemed to hold its breath. the last light of the sun shimmered on the water, carving out the silhouette of a lone walker, lost in thought or simply carried by routine. behind him, the clouds gathered, thick and heavy, waiting. maybe he felt it too. the weight of what was coming.
the floor becomes a canvas, washed in a strange twilight between departure and arrival. a lone silhouette drags its luggage through purple light, frozen mid-stride like a memory caught between yesterday and somewhere else. the body is absent, but the shape tells the story—movement, weight, solitude. this is the stillness of travel, the echo of steps never heard, the shape of someone who has already gone.