Ombre Sky Quotes

que ferais-je sans ce monde que ferais-je sans ce monde sans visage sans questions où être ne dure qu'un instant où chaque instant verse dans le vide dans l'oubli d'avoir été sans cette onde où à la fin corps et ombre ensemble s'engloutissent que ferais-je sans ce silence gouffre des murmures haletant furieux vers le secours vers l'amour sans ce ciel qui s'élève sur la poussieère de ses lests que ferais-je je ferais comme hier comme aujourd'hui regardant par mon hublot si je ne suis pas seul à errer et à virer loin de toute vie dans un espace pantin sans voix parmi les voix enfermées avec moi Translation... what would I do without this world what would I do without this world faceless incurious where to be lasts but an instant where every instant spills in the void the ignorance of having been without this wave where in the end body and shadow together are engulfed what would I do without this silence where the murmurs die the pantings the frenzies towards succour towards love without this sky that soars above its ballast dust what would I do what I did yesterday and the day before peering out of my deadlight looking for another wandering like me eddying far from all the living in a convulsive space among the voices voiceless that throng my hiddenness

I looked around I realized I was standing on the edge of the muddy bank with tall trees in the distance. I could see the sun rising over the water just as the sky glistened a beautiful rose gold with ombre shades of purple and blue––just like in my dream. But this wasn’t my dream or was it? I can openly admit I have been mentally lost for months, but now as I sit here with an irate otter yelling at me, the idea of lost took on a whole new meaning.

Of all the works by Victor Hugo the poetic generation of 1880 preferred above all the Chansons des Rues et des Bois ('Songs of the Streets and Woods') and the late poems such as Ce que dit Ia Bouche d'Ombre ('What says the mouth of shadow'), written during a period of intense spiritualism. Quite apart from drawings done during seances, for the most part caricatures, hob-goblins and ghouls, the graphic work of Hugo is that of a visionary. Wood engravers beautifully reproduced these visions as illustrations for Le Rhin ('The Rhine') or Les Travailleurs de la Mer ('The Toilers of the Sea'). Drawn beside cursed romantic castles and storm-tossed lighthouses, ink blots become angels or skeletons, accidental stains become souls or flowers, ambiguities and metamorphoses provide prodigious leaven for the imagination: 'The magnificent imagination which flows through the drawings of Victor Hugo like the mystery in the sky' (Baudelaire).

They sky is an endless, sun-bleached blue, the earth split into two beneath it. The canyons on either side are an ombre of red, pink, orange, and white, topped with trees. They're massive, jagged, and ancient, layered from millions of years of microscopic, life, those slow, steady moments of everyday routines, and the cracks made by life-changing things: love, death, other losses. "God, I miss this." I look over at Theo, at the wonder painted on his face. "What?" He gestures out in front of us. "This. Traveling. Living. I don't know." "You haven't been living?" "I don't think so," he says, his eyes wandering over the view. I don't think I have, either. It's certainly never felt like this.

They sky is an endless, sun-bleached blue, the earth split into two beneath it. The canyons on either side are an ombre of red, pink, orange, and white, topped with trees. They're massive, jagged, and ancient, layered from millions of years of microscopic, life, those slow, steady moments of everyday routines, and the cracks made by life-changing things: love, death, other losses. "God, I miss this." I look over at Theo, at the wonder painted on his face. "What?" He gestures out in front of us. "This. Traveling. Living. I don't know." "You haven't been living?" "I don't think so," he says, his eyes wandering over the view. I don't think I have, either. It's certainly never felt like this.

Sono sempre stata affascinata dalle ombre e da ciò che rappresentano: piccole zone di oscurità che possono esistere solo quando c’è luce. Se la luce si estingue, anche l’ombra smette di esistere, fagocitata da un’oscurità più grande. A volte mi sento proprio come un’ombra in un perpetuo crepuscolo. Sempre sul punto di svanire, ingoiata da qualcosa che non posso controllare.