“In twenty minutes I lost what I had been building for forty years. It happened while I was at work. My mother tried to turn on the stove and it caught fire. I lost everything. All my possessions and photographs were destroyed. Everything seemed hopeless. I didn’t sleep for many nights after it happened. But so many people came to help me. My friends let me live with them for months. My neighbors helped me clean the site and we began to rebuild. People were giving me extra materials. Twenty-five volunteers showed up from the local construction union. The experience changed me. I see people differently now. I thought that the world was full of people asking for things that they didn’t need. So I just focused on taking care of myself. As soon as my house is finished, I’m doing whatever I can to help people.”

(Montevideo, Uruguay)

what’s the point of tragedy if i can’t kiss you through it?

(read the poem here)

freeform fic about these two crazy kids at the end of the world. it’s sappy and maybe a tiny bit angsty.

read on ao3

The end of the world occurs slowly and too fast all at once.

It jumped on them quick enough, barely giving them time to prepare, and now, when they’re all out of options and have resigned themselves that this is really it, it stops, Slowing, slinking, slithering. Like a cat playing with its prey in those final moments before it rips its head off.

The heat comes four days after the black rain, and he’s not sure which is worse.

They end up losing around eighteen people to the rain, and then several more are picked off by heatstroke. They don’t have enough drinkable water and they’re all dropping like flies. By the time they accept that this is it, the end is really here, they’ve lost forty three of their people while dozens more are symptomatic.

There are no more funerals. It’s hard to be poetic in the wake of death about people you knew when you’re burning bodies every morning and night.

Arkadia is grey and morose and as soon as there’s a glimmer of good enough weather, they leave, ferrying people across to Becca’s island in droves, a mass exodus. There’s nothing left for people to do, just sit and wait with their loved ones for the death wave.

Bellamy is amongst the last to leave, and it feels a bit like that day at the dropship. A failed trip to the ocean then, a successful one now.

The heat has started to creep back in and they run out of water before they hit the shore. He shrugs out of his jacket, has half the mind to shrug out of his shirt too, but the sun is stinging and it’s an honest to god toss up about whether perpetual stickiness or mild sunburn is worse. In the end he compromises by dribbling water over his head before boarding the boat that will take them away once and for all.

He only does the bare minimum of updating Kane on their status, instead feeling the weariness settle deep in his bones and letting it consume him. He only wakes up when the ride gets rough as they approach the dock.

He’s still half asleep, in a daze and everything feels like it’s underwater. He’s still trying to gather his bearings when a body crashes into him, almost sending them stumbling into the sand.

Bellamy always forgets just how small Clarke really is. She always makes herself known, her presence alone is enough to fill any room, but whenever he holds her like this, he realises. His arms cover the entire span of her back while her head slots neatly underneath his chin, and she must have taken a back not too long ago because her hair is soft and clean.

Clarke Griffin is just a girl and sometimes even he forgets that.

“This is really happening,” she sniffs, lips brushing against his neck, “We’re all really going to die.”

Bellamy doesn’t know what to tell here and instead pulls her closer, screwing his eyes shut.

Keep reading


Jefferson Market Library. West Village. Originally a courthouse, the Jefferson Market Library (part of the New York Library System), has served The Village area for over forty years. The Victorian Gothic building is a New York Landmark built between 1875 and 1877 at a cost to the city of $360,000. What the city got in return is an architectural gem that was voted one of the ten most beautiful buildings in America by a poll of architects in 1880.

anonymous asked:

Cosa ne pensi delle relazioni a distanza?

personalmente penso siano quelle con un legame più speciale. poi dipende molto dalle persone, se ci sono sentimenti veri da parte di entrambi è ovvio che duri. bisogna essere molto forti per averne una, avere molta pazienza e basta soltanto crederci.

anonymous asked:

TD: "Carol is in her late thirties/early forties and physically could have another baby. " (about carzekial) Soooooooo, for their theories, Carol IS more young than Daryl? Because, I mean, they are always saying she is to old, that b3th has an appropriate age. But now, Carol is more young, because reasons

It all depends on the new delusional theory to keep Caryl apart. If it’s necessary, Carol will be 16 on season 10, if it somehow validates their “ship” or keep Carol far far away from Daryl’s pants.

anonymous asked:

didnt juno try to climb from the window in the updated murderous mas? and also he climbed out of his apartment window in the second rita minute... this fear of heights is not very consistent imo

I’ve got threefold opinions on this.


It’s very possible that his office is on the first couple stories of his building; we know from the Rita Minute that Juno’s apartment is on the third story, and that drop didn’t seem to phase him (or else that it did and he just freaked out onscreen). In Kitty-Cat, he also talks about rooftop chases being a regular part of the job– most likely he’s talking about the rooftops of commercial and residential buildings, no more than like five stories tall, probably closer to two. 

The one time we see his phobia manifest is in Prince of Mars, when he’s on the forty-fifth floor, with ten-foot ceilings– add in the floor space between stories, and he’s easily five hundred feet above the ground, which is the kind of fall not even the scrappiest detective can survive (unlike a three-story fall, which might kill you, but just as easily might leave you with a few broken bones). So my thoughts on that is that he starts getting uncomfortable after like two hundred feet or so. Which, like I said, is reasonable. 


The creative team are very, very insistent that only the Concierge bonus episode is 100% canon. Similarly, the first release of the Murderous Mask includes a lot of details that may or may not be canon anymore. Doing meta is always a little bit more tricky when some of the material you’re drawing from is kind of amorphous like that.


I’m fully aware that analyzing something that already exists is a whole lot easier than creating entire worlds and people out of thin air. Inconsistencies are totally going to happen– that’s just part of the process, especially when content is produced so quickly. 

Part of creating meta is recognizing that I might just be seeing patterns in random bits of data and inferring meaning where there is none. I could very well be right about some of these conclusions I draw; I could be dead wrong in them, too. But I’m also aware that the fandom is small enough that some of my mad ravings do reach the creators, and there’s a possibility that they might like one or two of my ideas and run with them. I know that when readers have come to me with conspiracy theories on some of my original stuff, my reaction has sometimes been “well, that wasn’t canon yesterday, but it sure as hell is now!”

My brother and I sang and sang growing up, sang love songs from operettas, sang pop, sang country western. We didn’t think about it, we just sang because we liked the way the sound came out of us, didn’t think about the words, just sang because it felt good to have music come out of your body and we tied our feelings to the music and let it all go like a kite sailing up, out of sight.

I don’t remember when I stopped singing. Jack stopped when he died, not forty yet, still a young man. Tonight I sit and think about time and music and where people’s lives go and it’s night and there’s a small breeze and I think about people like Pavarotti and Louis Armstrong and Ray Charles, singers who can put people’s joy and sorrow into music and sing it for them and I believe to my soul that there is no more wonderful thing to do in this world than to sing. And that of all the things in the world a man can do, there is no more honorable occupation.
—  Albert Huffstickler, The Song

i was literally charging $60 for 20 photos, $50 for 15 and and $40 for 10 like first off in what world do you need 10 pictures in the same fucking outfit at different angles second off, THATS MAD FUCKING PICTURES FOR $40 MY GUY, FORTY US DOLLARS, COME ON SIS I WAS PLAYING MYSELF LIKE HIGHKEY SO FUCK OUTTA HERE YOU CAN GET THESE UPSCALE ASS PRICES AND I WONT EVEN CHARGE YOU FOR AN OUTFIT CHANGE BABY GIRL GIMME THAT $125 AND GET 5 POPPING ASS PHOTOS, ILL EVEN NEGOTIATE WITH YOU IF YOU ACT RIGHT