echo gloves

He was a lovely, lovely man, a caring, private person. A lot of people said he was quiet but that’s because they didn’t get to know him.

He was actually quite lively and humorous. He was always making dry quips.

He was not shy, but he was happy to stand back and only speak when he thought it was relevant. He was a deep thinker who didn’t say any more than was necessary.

—  Bernadette Farrell on George Harrison, Liverpool Echo, 1 December 2001 [x]

CHAOTIC NEUTRAL II // masterlist

A/N: As requested by many of you, I did a part two for chaotic neutral! This has been in my drafts for quite a bit but I never really finished it until like two days ago…so here you go! Enjoy and thank you for reading :)

Warning: None

Word Count: 2.1K+

Nothing topped being captured by the First Order on the one planet you had highly doubted they’d bother with. It didn’t help that your existence was already known–let alone, the fact that you were Force sensitive–so when you were constantly surrounded by stormtroopers, you should’ve gone with your instinct and listened. Without a doubt, you knew none of this wasn’t going to end well…not when you were standing on some sort of vessel with binders holding your wrists together.

Keep reading


George Harrison onstage during The Beatles’ Bravo Beatles Blitztournee at the Circus Krone Bau, Munich, 24 June 1966, screen capped from footage of the show.

“The Beatles are singing ‘Day Tripper’. Near the entrance a seventeen-year-old jumps up from her seat. There are tears in her eyes. In her hand she holds a full-page sized photograph of George. She lifts the paper and gazes at the stage. Now and then one can see her lips move and one notices that she is managing to stammer: ‘George, George…’” - Translated from an article by Manfred Röllinghoff, Main-Echo, 25 June 1966

anonymous asked:

Writing prompt #3 for Hero please?

She Trusted You

When he finally lost her, it was to the Labyrinth of Self. One of the more blatant metaphors of their world, it was nevertheless vast, far reaching, and highly dangerous. It was also impossible to sidestep. We can’t go over it, we can’t go under it- oh no! We’ll have to go through it!

It hadn’t been too hard to begin with. She kept close to his heel, and hung on to his shamboo cane, just has she had done when they were crossing through the dark beneath the sea. The multi-faceted walls provided them with an escort of a hundred reflections, amplifying every move they made over and over. The further they went, the narrower and taller the walls became, leaning at odd angles, until they were moving in a dense, dark crowd of themselves. It was about then that she had started to cry, although several of her reflections had begun to do that some time ago.

He hadn’t tried to comfort her, although he glimpsed a few of the more distant reflections doing so- the ones that were several removes from their own selves where the light started to give out and the greenish shadow started to pile up. He had just tugged her along, telling her again and again to concentrate, to stay real, stay one, struggling not to panic as the weight on the end of his cane grew less and less. When it vanished altogether, he was forced to look at her as he turned to try and scoop her up in a last ditch attempt to hold her together. She had thinned out and split into countless copies, all layered on top of each other and moving only a fraction out of sync. They slipped and spilled through his fingers, and by the time he had taken two paces, she had disintegrated altogether. Her reflections scattered.

He stood there for a moment, arms clutched to his chest, awkward and absurd. All that hard won progress. All those narrow scrapes and odds overcome. Gone in an instant. 

“You could gather her up again,” said a voice beside him. “Take her back to the market. There’s a smelter there who might be able to-”

“You know I can’t afford to waste my time with that.” He turned on his heel, and started back the way they had come. Sparse reflections of the the erstwhile Hero continued to mill through the crowded mirrors, following him or standing still, clutching at his blazer or at his cane. Some had stopped crying. Most had not. All looked alone and lost.

“She trusted you, you know.”

“No she didn’t. You think I would pick a Hero that stupid? And I thought your opinion of me couldn’t sink any lower.”

The reflection of his that had spoken shrugged, and drifted away into the depths of the mirror. The walls lowered and withdrew as he made his way out of the Labyrinth, shedding the silvery, introspective gloom. The ever present Doubts that liked to use the place as a breeding ground made garbled hisses at his approach, but he payed them no attention. Not time for that. No time for grieving, either, for all that he felt it looming in the distance. He could out pace all that. He knew from past experience.

Back in the Labyrinth, somewhere in the fading echoes, one gloved hand took hold of a small brown one, and held it tight.