speaking of which: using the word “violence” to describe property damage is intellectually dishonest at worst and just ignorant at best. you know what insurance is, right? you know insurance is real and exists? you know human lives and rights are objectively more important than property, which can be replaced?
come on. these discussions are exhausting. they’re circular, trite and based on you entirely misunderstanding how the world works on any level. or worse having a totally bizarre sense of empathy for a window or a sign
Sometimes, things don’t go as planned. More times than not, everyone gets through the year and makes it out safely. But every once in a while, there’s a sickness, or a fight, or a harebrained scheme to save the world gone sideways, and one of them doesn’t make it through the year.
They mourn for their fallen. They know they’ll see them again, in a few months, as if they’d never died, but it’s always tough for a while after. Sometimes the people they encounter in these other worlds are startled by how quickly they move on with life. They tell them they’ll see their brother or sister again one day. Most take it as trite, something you say to console yourself in the face of death. But Taako tells them, “No really, it’s not goodbye, it’s just TTYL!”
Whenever one of them dies before the year’s end, Lucretia opens another notebook, and begins to write.
She writes them letters. She doesn’t write to them every day. Just when there’s a brilliant success, or a devastating failure, or a joke that would have made them laugh, a beautiful tree they would have climbed, or a rock that looked so goddamn much like Barry’s face that they had to take it with them. There are doodles and anecdotes. “I wish you could have seen her.” “We needed you today. You would’ve known just what to say.” She records these postcards for them, from the months they missed. And when they’ve finally settled down in their new home for the year, she quietly hands them over.
Everyone dies on Supernatural. We should just get over it.
are you sure about that? cause im still waiting for a couple of characters to die, but no luck so far. plus my issue is not just with (female) characters dying, but how their deaths are written. like they mean nothing. 3 minutes, no lines and bye bye.
Date you? he wonders. The term seems so trite, casual. Kei doesn’t think it quite fits he and Yamaguchi. He thinks, after everything and all this time, they’re deserving of something entirely new; untouched by millions before them.
Campefire in Your Chest is ultimately my most favorite tsukkiyama fic. The characterization, narration, and all the little details in between the lines are phenomenal.
WOMAN WRITES A BOOK OF LOVE POEMS
and it’s old news, typical feminine nonsense, pseudo-emotional bullshit. Glib, trite, tired and hackneyed. I mean did you see the way she just went on and on about whatever she went on and on about? Probably a good read if you’re a teenage girl or into romance novels. Not to say her work doesn’t have merit, it’s just not for everyone. Maybe if she broadened her horizons a little and picked another topic. So she sat and she waited for love and she wrote about it when it came and when it didn’t. So she compared collarbones to clover fields and called herself lucky. It’s not exactly groundbreaking.
MAN WRITES A BOOK OF LOVE POEMS
and it’s vulnerability at its finest, timeless and honest, something that really hits home. A running faucet of intimacy. A masterpiece of human sensitivity. Inspirational and intensely relatable, really a must-read for anyone with a heart. Such a traditional topic too. Amazing how he captured it with such a fresh voice. Did you see the page where he wrote, "girl, you’re not lucky, I am lucky because I found you"? Look, I won’t say he went out and saved poetry all on his own, but god. He may as well have.
“Am I up next?” Jyn asked. She laughed caustically as she guessed why Mothma had approached. “You here to prompt me?” There had to be versions of Jyn’s story that Mon Mothma, chief of state of the Rebel Alliance, wanted told—and others she wanted silenced. But Mothma shook her head. “No. I wanted to say…” Her gaze held on Jyn’s face as she searched for words. Jyn thought through all the trite, meaningless statements the woman might make: I’m sorry for your loss. The Rebellion is proud of you. Good luck with the crowd. “I won’t forget what we did to you,” Mothma said. Jyn stared and tried to comprehend the sadness in her voice.