we need famine, we tell ourselves, to learn to love the feast; but when floods come to wet parched tongues, we drown in what we seek.
— Vladimir Nabokov, Letters to Véra — Joseph Lorusso, Playing Their Song —
Before The Storm _ 1
Predictable _ 2
Leftovers _ 3
©Mio Im
Promised love, autumn sun, lay your hand upon my cheek. Your veil will catch the wind– I cannot look long, but the lace-dapple sight, caught between falling leaves, will wind my heart for the winter. I know that we are springbound, bouquet of daffodils, but november is not yet a miser. Take this taste– take a sight– take, before time’s shadow sets us cold, whatever it is you will.
One pain, biting iron-bitter, the earth chews when she lays in frost: she cannot grow alone. the fern cannot draw the furled into flight without the stroke of the sun on her back– the dandelion cannot seed without summer-sweet wind carding through her hair. the spring comes in storms. it rains, and you drink, and you taste pride bloody as you choke it down.
Anonymous asked:
someone has to pin the artwork to the wall lmao lmao lmao
I have my own gallery showing soon. No one will be safe.
Anonymous asked:
what did security guard johnson in the east wing do after he found you guys
he joined in ofc
Anonymous asked:
I'm scared of being unconscious, all I've ever known is being conscious
Me too, that’s why I try to find everything there is to enjoy about being conscious before the day comes where I’ll no longer be conscious
the person reblogging this from you is rooting for you to have a happy, healthy, and successfull 2022
draculasswife-deactivated202212
Head of Medusa (c.1617-1618) by Peter Paul Rubens.