Get The Message?
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Message In A Bottle
For Macro Mondays - Miniature
From one of the children's play sets. This miniature bottle measures 45 mm (1 3/4 inches) tall and 25 mm (1 inch) in diameter. The message inside is 25 mm (1 inch) long.
Happy Macro Monday!
I wonder if this will get more or fewer views that my recent head-on gull shot? I am guessing people like pigeons even less than gulls...
Human silhouette using mobile phone in the Born district of Barcelona. The photograph is taken from Espaseria Street, which leads from the Gothic basilica of Santa Maria del Mar to Pla de Palau. In the background, the wall of the side nave of the basilica placed in Santa Maria Street.
♥ Ƭσ ѕєє αℓℓ Iηƒσ & Ƈяє∂ιтѕ - ƇLIƇƘ HƐRƐ ♥
BackDrop - Bdrop // Illuminated Building Stairs
Dress -[Vips Creations] - Female Dress - [Darla]Original - Sense Event
Pose - FOXCITY. - Night Owl Bento Set
Le messager sagittaire est un aigle haut sur pattes qui affectionne de nombreuses nourritures. Il consomme des insectes, des lézards et serpents mais aussi tout ce qui lui tombe devant le bec. J'ai déjà observé un de ces oiseaux croquer un jeune lièvre imprudent passé près de lui.
"You see I'm staring at the ceiling where the paint has started peeling down,
I've got your photo on my mirror but your image is faded out now.
I know your machine is full, but I'm still going to call just to hear your voice.
How could you go without leaving a message?
To say I don't miss you... it's a lie. Even after goodbye."
~Matt Hartke
And waiting a lot!
“If we wait until we're ready, we'll be waiting for the rest of our lives.
Lemony Snicket”
“The real perfectibility of man may be illustrated, as I have
mentioned before, by the perfectibility of a plant. The object of the enterprising florist is, as I conceive, to unite size, symmetry, and beauty of color."
― Thomas Robert Malthus
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This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary.
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs at my feet as if I were God,
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility.
Fumy spiritous mists inhabit this place
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky –
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection.
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.
The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness –
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars.
Inside the church, the saints will be all blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness –
blackness and silence.
Sylvia Plath