the new metric system just dropped
why are there no cousin greg fan fics? what’s that about what’s going on
If Will dies first, it is obvious Hannibal would cannibalize Will’s flesh. Hannibal mourned Mischa by eating her, and he would do the same for Will; to consume and eat and incorporate is part of grieving. But what would Hannibal do with Will’s bones? He’d eat the marrow, maybe make soup from them, but what of the calcified parts that remain, the parts that can’t be eaten?
I don’t really see him just keeping them around or displaying them, something stagnant and to be ogled. Burying them in the family plot in Lithuania makes sense because Will is family, but it also requires Hannibal to go back to a place he can’t go. Hannibal could cremate the bones, but then what? Spreading the ashes doesn’t seem like something he would do; he can’t know what happens to them. Keeping Will in an urn on his desk or a shelf also feels out of character, a memory collecting dust.
What if Hannibal had Will’s ashes pressed into pencil lead? There are ways to compress ashes into something that could be written with or drawn. What if Hannibal draws Will with his own ashes, commemorating him in a completed cycle. Sketching the man with his own remains. Remembering Will as he saw him, recreating moments they shared from Hannibal’s mind palace. Having Will live forever in depictions of himself. Hannibal would never be truly left behind. And Hannibal would sharpen the pencils as he always had; he isn’t unfamiliar with taking a blade to Will. Shaving off a layer but keeping him sharp.
Displaying and keeping art made from Will’s ashes would mean so much more than a reconstructed skeleton or an urn on a shelf or a plot that would become overgrown with weeds. He could draw Will in motion, alive, as he wished to remember him, and create moments and memories they didn’t get to experience together.
single most unhinged thing i’ve ever read
Hannibal is like, do you think about killing me? have you thought about killing me, will you think about killing me, when will you think about killing me?
sometimes a man has to cut off his mullet, iron and put on a salmon pink button-up shirt, greet his therapist ass first, joke about killing said therapist, and maybe share a glass a wine with him. normal guy stuff i promise
Will Graham not being scared of Hannibal, but so, so scared of loving Hannibal, being loved by Hannibal, wanting a life with Hannibal and what surrendering to that means about him. Gouging my eyes out btw.
Hannibal 2x08 - “Su-zakana”
#normal therapy session
Will Graham will look at a crime scene and be like “this isn’t a murder, it’s a master’s thesis. our killer is getting their mfa in killing.” and everyone else will be like “ah yes of course. Murder Grad School. you’re a genius, Will.” and then Will goes to therapy and Hannibal is like “would you go to art school if you could, Will?” and Will looks up at him through his coquettish whore eyelashes and he goes “I’m more of a painter than a sculptor.” and Hannibal nods and takes notes but all his notes just say “Mrs. William Graham” in different cursive styles with hearts over all the i’s. and then Will drives home to Virginia and has a dream where he’s like sculpting a stag out of marble or something while he’s sweating through his only set of bedsheets. great show no notes love u Bryan Fuller <3
can u believe that a) they don't kiss here and b) there's a guy just crawled out of a horse right next to them
This Is A Tree
original poem by A.D.
///|||\\\
and then
and then when there is nothing
when there is fire and ash and the pain of the scorch
then there is a tree
there is a tree
and it’s spring
it’s going to be summer
and then fall and then winter and then another spring
and another summer too
there is a tree
and you all don’t know it but it loves me
just from the pictures i can tell
it loves me
and i know
i’m going to come down from this ledge eventually
it’s not going to be okay
it never has been
why would it start now
but there is a tree
and it’s blooming
some sort of fruitless flower
over and over again that flower
and this tree is infinite
and i get to look at that
and think
this is a tree
I don’t know how to close doors, I was raised in a zoo.
Original Poem By A.D.
i don’t know how to close doors
i was raised in a zoo
with parents like zookeepers
peering in, as parents do
i was bred in captivity
and i was raised that way
when they finally opened the doors
i only knew how to stay
i gazed out the window
and thought of the world
but it wasn’t for me
the zoo needed a girl
i always felt mislabeled
like someone didn’t get it right
onlookers saw a girl
but i was different inside
i mean none of it mattered
they were always looking in
girl, boy, or animal
i had to pretend
i talk in the past tense
but i’m in denial
i don’t know how to leave behind
what i knew as a child
i couldn’t if i wanted to
i’m still locked in my cage
i just never surface anymore
i’ve got no energy for the stage
and isn’t it so funny
that when i got to choose
i decided to go looking
for positions in other zoos
“dance monkey dance monkey
do as your told
i know that your tired
but the show never gets old”
and when the zookeepers
turned out the lights
i would lie in my enclosure
and i would take back my nights
i would have a waking dream
of a life in the wild
but even the fantasies
only lasted a short while
every single moment
that i ever have breathed
i belonged to the zoo
it was never for me
my friend gave me this idea and i couldn’t stop myself.