You aren’t going to heaven; you’re simply drifting into the part of the dream where the music never fades out, and the red dress you’re wearing never loses its sway.
You feel light, almost hollow, as if your heart has been replaced by a flickering candle. The wind hums a low, orchestral melody—a lullaby for the restless—and as you reach for his hand, the ground dissolves into a mist of gold glitter.
The garden below is overgrown with white peonies that glow in the dark, their heavy heads nodding to a radio station playing from 1957. There is no such thing as "soon" or "later" here—only the infinite, honey-soaked now .
You aren’t going to heaven; you’re simply drifting into the part of the dream where the music never fades out, and the red dress you’re wearing never loses its sway.
You feel light, almost hollow, as if your heart has been replaced by a flickering candle. The wind hums a low, orchestral melody—a lullaby for the restless—and as you reach for his hand, the ground dissolves into a mist of gold glitter. yes to heaven but more dreamy / lana del rey
The garden below is overgrown with white peonies that glow in the dark, their heavy heads nodding to a radio station playing from 1957. There is no such thing as "soon" or "later" here—only the infinite, honey-soaked now . You aren’t going to heaven; you’re simply drifting
