Third tree on Your left
a nightingale was singing.
Fairground of my soul.
A given arrangement of colors, lights, and shadows produces an impression. This is what we might call the music of the painting. Often you are seized by that magical harmony before you even know what the subject of a painting is, as when you enter a cathedral and are too far away from the painting to make it out clearly. 400 more words
Degrees of Refrangibilty
“And so I say to the sciences…and to the humanities…what a power we could forge together if we could all pledge to honor both our truly different and equally necessary ways, and then join them in full respect, in the service of a common goal…” 170 more words
The forest sings sorrow, seeping through jugs of sunshine and leaves. It’s the infectious kind of sorrow, different from the kind of misery that draws company, and instead radiates from the inside out like the ripples formed from a dropped pebble in still waters. 80 more words