Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
you ever accidentally create a recurring theme in your writing. you start putting together an outline for something you’ve never written before and get partway through planning, rearrange the pieces, and go “GODDAMMIT THIS IS ABOUT GRIEF AGAIN”? because let me tell you,
People on here and Twitter are turning the term “refugee” into some sort of joke - so I’m just going to kindly ask everyone to stop tossing the term refugee around like it’s not an extremely politically charged term
- sincerely, someone who’s family are literally refugees
Known as the “Lady of Ill Fortune,” this untitled piece from the estate of the late Emilio Lambrusco has since been passed from dealer, to purchaser, to dealer again. While little is known about the painting in actuality, murky rumors around the piece suggest it portrays Lambrusco’s wife, allegedly in the middle of predicting his death. 1905-1915.
