Uzun Günler ve Hoş Geceler Sai.

prefer a feast of friends to the giant family

“I like the stars. It’s the illusion of permanence, I think. I mean, they’re always flaring up and caving in and going out. But from here, I can pretend…I can pretend that things last. I can pretend that lives last longer than moments. Gods come, and gods go. Mortals flicker and flash and fade. Worlds don’t last; and stars and galaxies are transient, fleeting things that twinkle like fireflies and vanisn into cold and dust. But I can pretend.”

—   Destruction, The Sandman Volume Seven: Brief Lives, Neil Gaiman (via vapiddreamscape)

“Getting what you want and being happy are two very different things.”

—   Desire of the Endless, Endless Nights by Neil Gaiman (via mirrormystic)

“I think hell is something you carry around with you. Not somewhere you go.”

—   Gaiman, Neil. The Sandman. (via wordsnquotes)

(Source: wordsnquotes, via wordsnquotes)

alcyere:

O’Brien’s Tower (by Timo Kirkkala)

alcyere:

O’Brien’s Tower (by Timo Kirkkala)

İnsan bazen evin sıcaklığını arıyor. Ve aradıkça arıyor çocukluğun uzaklığını.

Anonymous said: Ses veeeer-ir misin?? :)

Se

jadebox:

ah, o ses, bildik bir anı’nın çehresinin yırtıldığı an, bir atomun ihtimaller bulutu gibi, kırılmak üzere olan bir pencerenin çift katlı sihri gibi sizi de etkilemez miydi?
pek az kişinin ancak farkına varabildiği o çivilenmiş pencereyi açmak istiyorsam eğer boynuzlarımdan başka kullanabileceğim bir şey yoktur.
can you hear me, major tom?

jadebox:

ah, o ses, bildik bir anı’nın çehresinin yırtıldığı an, bir atomun ihtimaller bulutu gibi, kırılmak üzere olan bir pencerenin çift katlı sihri gibi sizi de etkilemez miydi?

pek az kişinin ancak farkına varabildiği o çivilenmiş pencereyi açmak istiyorsam eğer boynuzlarımdan başka kullanabileceğim bir şey yoktur.

can you hear me, major tom?

Yapmak zorunda olduğum şeyler haricinde yapacak hiçbir şeyim yok, ve bu beni deli ediyor.

Auguries of Innocence

To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.

A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all heaven in a rage.

A dove-house fill’d with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell thro’ all its regions.
A dog starv’d at his master’s gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.

A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain does tear.

A skylark wounded in the wing,
A cherubim does cease to sing.
The game-cock clipt and arm’d for fight
Does the rising sun affright.

Every wolf’s and lion’s howl
Raises from hell a human soul.

The wild deer, wand’ring here and there,
Keeps the human soul from care.
The lamb misus’d breeds public strife,
And yet forgives the butcher’s knife.

The bat that flits at close of eve
Has left the brain that won’t believe.
The owl that calls upon the night
Speaks the unbeliever’s fright.

He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be belov’d by men.
He who the ox to wrath has mov’d
Shall never be by woman lov’d.

The wanton boy that kills the fly
Shall feel the spider’s enmity.
He who torments the chafer’s sprite
Weaves a bower in endless night.

The caterpillar on the leaf
Repeats to thee thy mother’s grief.
Kill not the moth nor butterfly,
For the last judgement draweth nigh.

He who shall train the horse to war
Shall never pass the polar bar.
The beggar’s dog and widow’s cat,
Feed them and thou wilt grow fat.

The gnat that sings his summer’s song
Poison gets from slander’s tongue.
The poison of the snake and newt
Is the sweat of envy’s foot.

The poison of the honey bee
Is the artist’s jealousy.

The prince’s robes and beggar’s rags
Are toadstools on the miser’s bags.
A truth that’s told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.

It is right it should be so;
Man was made for joy and woe;
And when this we rightly know,
Thro’ the world we safely go.

Joy and woe are woven fine,
A clothing for the soul divine.
Under every grief and pine
Runs a joy with silken twine.

The babe is more than swaddling bands;
Throughout all these human lands;
Tools were made and born were hands,
Every farmer understands.
Every tear from every eye
Becomes a babe in eternity;

This is caught by females bright,
And return’d to its own delight.
The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar,
Are waves that beat on heaven’s shore.

The babe that weeps the rod beneath
Writes revenge in realms of death.
The beggar’s rags, fluttering in air,
Does to rags the heavens tear.

The soldier, arm’d with sword and gun,
Palsied strikes the summer’s sun.
The poor man’s farthing is worth more
Than all the gold on Afric’s shore.

One mite wrung from the lab’rer’s hands
Shall buy and sell the miser’s lands;
Or, if protected from on high,
Does that whole nation sell and buy.

He who mocks the infant’s faith
Shall be mock’d in age and death.
He who shall teach the child to doubt
The rotting grave shall ne’er get out.

He who respects the infant’s faith
Triumphs over hell and death.
The child’s toys and the old man’s reasons
Are the fruits of the two seasons.

The questioner, who sits so sly,
Shall never know how to reply.
He who replies to words of doubt
Doth put the light of knowledge out.

The strongest poison ever known
Came from Caesar’s laurel crown.
Nought can deform the human race
Like to the armour’s iron brace.

When gold and gems adorn the plow,
To peaceful arts shall envy bow.
A riddle, or the cricket’s cry,
Is to doubt a fit reply.

The emmet’s inch and eagle’s mile
Make lame philosophy to smile.
He who doubts from what he sees
Will ne’er believe, do what you please.

If the sun and moon should doubt,
They’d immediately go out.
To be in a passion you good may do,
But no good if a passion is in you.

The whore and gambler, by the state
Licensed, build that nation’s fate.
The harlot’s cry from street to street
Shall weave old England’s winding-sheet.

The winner’s shout, the loser’s curse,
Dance before dead England’s hearse.

Every night and every morn
Some to misery are born,
Every morn and every night
Some are born to sweet delight.

Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.

We are led to believe a lie
When we see not thro’ the eye,
Which was born in a night to perish in a night,
When the soul slept in beams of light.

God appears, and God is light,
To those poor souls who dwell in night;
But does a human form display
To those who dwell in realms of day.

-William Blake (1803)

Wow, I’m sick of doubt
Live in the light of certain south
Cruel bindings.
The servants have the power
Dog-men and their mean women
Pulling poor blankets over our sailors

I’m sick of dour faces
Staring at me from the tv tower, 

I want roses in my garden bower; dig? 
Royal babies, rubies
Must now replace 
Aborted strangers in the mud
These mutants, blood-meal
For the plant that’s plowed.

They are waiting to take us 
Into the severed garden
Do you know how pale and wanton thrillful
Comes death on a strange hour
Unannounced, unplanned for
Like a scaring over-friendly guest you’ve brought to bed

Death makes angels of us all
And gives us wings
Where we had shoulders
Smooth as raven’s
Claws

No more money, no more fancy dress
This other kingdom seems by far the best
Until it’s other jaw reveals incest
And loose obedience to a vegetable law.

I will not go
Prefer a feast of friends
To the giant family.