don't go gentle

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night"

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

—  By Dylan Thomas

Susan Pevensie - Queen of Old

tsukiyama: *sees kaneki*

tsukiyama: sign me the FUCK up 👌👀👌👀👌👀👌👀👌👀 good shit go౦ԁ sHit👌 thats ✔ some good👌👌shit right👌👌th 👌 ere👌👌👌 right✔there ✔✔if i do ƽaү so my self 💯  i say so💯  thats what im talking about right thereright there(chorus: ʳᶦᵍʰᵗ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ) mMMMMᎷМ💯 👌👌 👌НO0ОଠOOOOOОଠଠOoooᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒ👌 👌👌 👌💯 👌 👀 👀 👀 👌👌Good shit


It’s really easy to tell how each of them would approach the other for their first kiss [x, x, x]

Did….did he just win £50 by mansplaining the job of the Prime Minister….TO THE PRIME MINISTER?

He’s never had the experience of digging a grave.  Not once.  He’s never dug anything before—at least, not with a shovel.  He’d dug plenty with his hands when he was a child and he and Alinore would pretend to be pups burying bones.  Father had yelled at them for dirtying their clothes but that had never stopped them.

The wood of the shovel’s handle in his hands is different from the leather grip of his sword.  Softer, somehow, perhaps because the material is softer than what lay beneath the leather.  Certainly more breakable.  He could easily snap the thing in two.  But he doesn’t.  That would serve no purpose.  And besides, the new blisters on his hands remind him.

It had been a repentance, at first.  Repentance for the lives he’d taken, the lives he’d destroyed, the people he’d maimed, the butcher’s boys he’d flung over Stranger’s—Driftwood’s—back.  Each time he dropped the shovel into the earth, each time it made that slicing sound of metal parting dirt, it was to remind him of the limbs he’d hacked, the bodies he’d torn asunder, the pain he’d inflicted.  And each time he hears it, he feels it.

But the more he digs, the more his muscles change—warring muscles, hardened for fighting, to bear the weight of armor fading, softening, weakening while the ones in his shoulders change from the motion of the digging—the more he realizes there is no repentance, no matter what the brothers tell him.  The gods will never forgive him, no matter how he works for it.  The gods had never loved him—that much he’d learned when his face had been melting off. 

But, even with no hope of forgiveness, he digs.  He digs, and digs, and digs, every day, all day, under the sun, the wind, the rain, the fog off the sea, he digs, digs, digs the whole day through.  Because what else could he do?  What else should he do?  What else is he worthy of doing?

He mentions it to Elder Brother one day while they eat their lunch.  “Do you think you are not worthy of the gods love?” Elder Brother asks.

“The gods have never loved me.  They never will.”

“Why do you think they have never loved you?”

He laughs.  “What love have they ever shown me?” he demands, pointing at his face.  Elder Brother knows the story by now.  They all do.  “What love has ever been shown me?”  Gentle Mother, font of you don’t deserve the gift of mercy.

“And how would you recognize their love when you do not love yourself?” Elder brother asks him quietly.

He feels his eyes widen, feels his jaw go slack, feels the air cool in the back of his throat.

“What’s there to love?” he asks.

Elder Brother only smiles.  “That is something you must answer for yourself, Brother Sandor.”

Imagine with me for a moment...

It’s a Sunday evening in Los Angeles in the not too distant future.  The Santa Ana winds have picked up, and it’s a balmy 82 degrees and perfectly clear.  A limo pulls up to the red carpet and the door opens.  He unfolds himself from the back seat and straightens his Tom Ford suit jacket.  He’s bulkier than he has been in recent years, but it’s a streamlined, muscular bulk that he’s proud of.  He’s never been in better physical shape.  His stylist has somehow managed to tame the Hodiak-hair-from-hell into something manageable and recognizable and clean, and left the few strands of silvery-gray at his temples that have started to show through.

After a beat, he reaches back and hands a familiar, diminutive blonde out of the back seat before closing the door behind her.  She’s wearing a gorgeous beaded Elie Saab that she chose specifically because it was precisely the color of his eyes: A hue that hasn’t even been named, somewhere in between grey and blue and green.  It brings out the aquamarine of her own eyes, and her hair falls in a golden wave around her face, reminiscent of Veronica Lake or Katherine Hepburn, a Hollywood era long since past. She is radiant.

His hand finds the small of her back, seemingly of its own accord, as the cameras start flashing wildly and the photographers start shouting their names. He bends forward to murmur something to her, his lips barely brushing that spot just behind her ear, that instantly eases the anxiety that had started to coil tighter in her stomach. Unconsciously she tilts her head up, and leans ever closer to hear him, the space between them all but disappearing. Whatever he says instantly makes her face crack into a dazzling smile and laughter bubbles past her lips. The cameras’ shutters snap wildly, sounding like alligators, capturing the intimate moment in a blinding, frenzied cacophony. Intimate, but no longer private.

They move together down the line of photographers, his hand never leaving her waist. They lean into one another, her hand occasionally absentmindedly toying with his coat, his eyes wandering to her face as she whispers one thing or another to him. They smile often, but not at the cameras…at one another. They share an inside joke of cosmic proportions. They are an island of two, lashed to one another by invisible rope as they drift down the sea of red carpet.

On Bellamy being the inside man (Again)

Let me start by saying, I know when the trailer came out we were all sure this was going to be direction they would take Bellamy this season. That Bellamy would infiltrate Pike’s ranks on behalf of Kane and reprise his role of the unsung hero of Mount Weather who lived in a vent for a week and was never so much as spotted. Recent canon events indicate that this theory was incorrect and that Bellamy joined Pike willingly, and that the only one playing double agent right now is Nathan Miller.

However, while this might be so, I’m dragging this theory back from the dusty corner it went to die on, revamping it, and presenting it for your consideration.

(Wildly optimistic speculation beneath the cut. This is how I deal with stress.)

Keep reading


Athos in series 2 previews, part 3

[part 1] [part 2]

Watch on

Tears were rolling down my face by the time I realized Alaric was going to die.
However I was a complete mess with this scene.
Alaric was willing to die for the others and in the process Damon would lose his best friend, Elena&Jeremy would lose their guardian.

And then…I saw Damon’s face when Alaric dies.My heart broke </3 The pain in his eyes :’( The hurt he must be going through. He thinks he has lost Elena and now Alaric. How much pain can someone endure :’( 

What is going to happen now Alaric is Evilaric?

Poor Damon!!! He sincerely needs something good to happen in his life.

ps: for a second I had thought Elena had come to check up on him…but no… 


Tears were rolling down my face by the time I realized Alaric was going to die, thus Damon was going to lose his best friend.
However my heart broke when I saw Damon’s face when Alaric dies…
</3 The pain in his eyes :’(

What is going to happen now Alaric is Evilaric?

Poor Damon!!! He needs something good to happen in his life.
He thinks he has lost Elena and now Alaric.

*tear drops*