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The golden Hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my Dearie;
For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Robert Burns 'Highland Mary', stanza 2.
Fogtober it became known as .
after a rare wet and stormy September we had thick coastal Fog with sunny afternoons
Photo taken and edited with iphone4, cam apps: Hipstamatic, postpro apps: Superimpose, Stackables, Mextures, Afterlight.
Twitter/IG/EyeEm/Tumblr: @adesantora
Fogtober it became known as .
after a rare wet and stormy September we had thick coastal Fog with sunny afternoons
Photo taken and edited with iphone3gs, apps: Hipstamatic (Multiexposure on, Loftus lens + D-Type Plate Film, No Flash), Afterlight, Superimpose, PicFx, Photo Power.
Twitter/IG/EyeEm: @adesantora
The smallest flower is a thought,
a life answering to some feature of the Great Whole,
of whom they have a persistent intuition.
- Honore De Balzac
Perhaps not to be is to be without your being,
without your going, that cuts noon light
like a blue flower, without your passing
later through fog and stones,
without the torch you lift in your hand
that others may not see as golden,
that perhaps no one believed blossomed
the glowing origin of the rose,
without, in the end, your being, your coming
suddenly, inspiringly, to know my life,
blaze of the rose-tree, wheat of the breeze:
and it follows that I am, because you are:
it follows from ‘you are’, that I am, and we:
and, because of love, you will, I will,
We will, come to be.
Pablo Neruda