Reading on a cloudy day, with a bowl of warm soup and some apple cider. 🩷

🥮🎃🍁🐈‍⬛

I saw the gooseflesh on my skin. I did not know what made it. I was not cold. Had a ghost passed over? No, it was the poetry.

Sylvia Plath

I enjoy the spring more than the autumn now. One does, I think, as one gets older.

—Virginia Woolf.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -