dreaming of spring breeze and golden fame,

the following pictures are from Kenzo's SS 2011 pret-a-porter collection.

all taken from style.com

I love the structures of the cut, and the lightweight feel of the materials. don't get me started about the patterns, too, because they are absolutely terrific, as in: really, really terrific. looking at the richness of the japanese-inspired details and the sharpness of the graphics is a notable form of a refreshing leap from dark-oriented collections that seem to be everywhere lately (thanks to the likes of balmain and demeulemeester who keep giving the theme a kick).

more, i love the idea of wearing a cropped corset underneath a low-cut anything created using a light material. sexy, subtle, simple, and stunning. like murakami novels. bon travail, antonio marras !

my idea of personal oasis

"the sand of the times keeps running out from under our feet.

we're no longer standing where we once stood." — haruki murakami

i've been asked by so many people on how i am always able to combine composition and poetry, and my answer to it is that poetic expressions come to me when i can really translate the events in my own life into the music of words. they are something i can really touch and experience from a very close range. sometimes they get too real i can hardly call those words 'dreamy' anymore. i am constantly trying to blur the lines. — V.S.

sud de la frontiere,

a metropolis approaching midnight, minimal external din, closed malls, caged front gates, small coffee shops near the station, a book suitable for a late-night read, languorous jazz, empty-sounding steps on emptied pavements. she wants to write down a story about subway lovers, two persons that, either by fate or named by the stars, keep on running into each other aboard the last train. the girl is a night bird who gets drunk easily and doesn't know how to gamble, but she gets herself drunk literally, beyond the magic of the texts and the journey she always sets for herself. she loves wearing a guy's old leather jacket two sizes too big for herself. she loves wearing boots so tough that make her feel as if she can actually kick someone in the face. the man will resemble the chinese lover in l'amant: tanned skin, small eyes, clad in expensive clothes as if he is to carry the entire weight of the world... on his clothes. he loves milan kundera and henry miller, and all the time he questions the existence of god the way someone questions the possibility of a thunder's appearance in a warm sunny afternoon.

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"Just like the thought that one late call to him would make him run away somewhere, or explode into dust, I always knew that the warm flicker I always had inside whenever I heard his voice would soon turn into dust, blown away by the night wind."

STEALING LIGHTS

a short story by vinda sonata

available for download soon

stealing lights.

through the thin curtains in my room, lights from the street outside and the moon seeped through. memories returned, in darkness alone whispers retained their prophetic connections through duke ellington's "the star-crossed lovers" playing in my ears. my soul was a crow, and her intensity was laced to the borders of creation. her wings were always strong. she was supposed to be the toughest twenty-one-year-old.

pale lights and moonshade,

ph by devina

sometimes i feel like i'm living a dream; boarding a light-speed train, all guarded by thick, shimmering silver steel plates that save me from being injured by the rush of wind generated by the force outside. at times i look out of the train window, trying to catch a view of light, and all i get is a single bright spot. knowing that i am probably unable to find another one, i close my eyes and savor that light; a light from a village far,far away, a village so far i wish i know the name.

i stare at the rain outside and cherish the silence. i know something: silence is something that you can actually hear.

breathing inside the bell jar,

"ce soir, je vais chanter une magnifique chanson pour mon amant imaginaire—parmi les etoiles, les lumieres, sous le ouvert du ciel."

milk on the road,

prank party tonight, venue: his wrecked-up art studio. gotta bring a giant, creamy cake and throw the cream all over the wall, then paint my name and my superstar crush on the large clear-glass windows and entrance doors. i would mix my cheap San Miguel with half a bottle of Smirnoff Ice, the recipe i got from my best friend. i was never a good drinker and i'd known enough how to avoid drunkenness so i wouldn't have to climb a tree and pee all over everybody. i would smoke until i could steam away the desperations of youth, and when my stomach got heated-up enough i would wash things down with two cartons of vanilla milk. then in the dark we would all stare at the lit large LCD screen watching muted indie videos, waiting for the night to pass its peak. as the sky grew darker and the street lights seemed brighter, we would rain camera blitz all over each other, posing so fiercely as if we were models for Calvin Klein campaigns.

four creative souls i've been stalking,

http://littlemoonlover.blogspot.com/

http://theres-a-girl-out-there.blogspot.com/

http://thedowsersdaughter.blogspot.com/

http://daretounravel.blogspot.com/

they're not only bloggers, they're artists with great minds and great taste in literature. they inspire me. you know you want to click, click, click !

forever nocturne.

strong, burning nights like fire on Absinthe. beers, revolution, rebellion, white smoke inside gray lungs, the doors of perception. truth and insomnia, dreams are to be awaken, after all.

she had an eye for Romanticism, but her feet were too heavy she still couldn't afford a pair of iron wings. daylight wasn't her thing, and when night came to wrap the city like a womb, she'd dreamed of a stranger with sun-kissed skin, dressed in all black. his expensive leather-and-velvet jacket would have a lot of drapes, and his designer leather boots would stomp on concrete pavements like harsh rain on one's skin. he would be small-eyed, the stranger, and just like any other great artists, he would 'light either sides of a candle'.

ph by devina

@VindaSonata on twitter

late-night coffee and greetings of the moon,

"save your complaints for another nights, my heart is in a sea of lime. the view of the stranger with the sun-kissed skin has gotten me intoxicated for the night."