Adriatic Angel

Johanna 2022-08-21 07:30:02

After watching it, I didn't want to think too deeply, I just felt as if I was this musician, deeply intoxicated, moved and shocked by the slender, fragile and transcendent beauty of the young man. In front of the silent beauty, everything seems worldly, rotten, sultry and suffocating.

I love his cherry lips that smile when he stops his white steps

I love the blush he promises to kiss as he laughs and whispers in his companion's arm

I love his sculptural body in the sun when he is as cheerful as the wind

I love him with that sly smile he left behind when he got off the elevator

I love his tulip-like eyes raised as he steps into early morning encounters

I love the pearly skin that rough grit caresses while he frolics

I love him like the misty eyes of the saint child in white walking forward

I love his dew-dropped pace that reflects the morning mist as he wanders by the railing

I love his fingers that flow on the piano like the holy wings of an angel

I love him wrapped in pious grief in the evening of the funeral

I love his rose-like face turned in the dim bridgehead sit-in

I love his cute little waist leaning on the railing like a curtain blowing

I love his stare-lit candlelight looking back in the alley where the fireworks are flying ashes

He is clearly naughty, naughty and free like a crystal clear butterfly, but he is far away, mysterious and hazy like the waves of the Adriatic sea.

He is as seductive and fascinated as a freshly picked strawberry, and holy and fragile as the morning light on a gondola.

He made everything sick of me, into depravity, incontinence and madness

I want to touch his sun-curled blonde hair, touch his flawless forehead

How I want to kneel on that sparkling, dazzling seaside and go to the direction of that holy hand

He is the god of love, the angel, the embodiment of beauty

God bless you

i would die for you

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Extended Reading

Death in Venice quotes

  • Gustav von Aschenbach: I remember we had one of these in my father's house. The aperture through which the sand runs is so tiny that... that first it seems as if the level in the upper glass never changes. To our eyes it appears that the sand runs out only... only at the end... and until it does, it's not worth thinking about... 'til the last moment... when there's no more time left to think about it.

  • Gustav von Aschenbach: You know sometimes I think that artists are rather like hunters aiming in the dark. They don't know what their target is, and they don't know if they've hit it. But you can't expect life to illuminate the target and steady your aim. The creation of beauty and purity is a spiritual act.

    Alfred: No Gustav, no. Beauty belongs to the senses. Only to the senses.