10 December 1815: Napoleon moves into Longwood House on the British island of St. Helena. He was confined there until his death, five and half years later. On July 8, 1816, General Charles de Montholon wrote to Governor Hudson Lowe on behalf of Napoleon:

“Longwood is the most unhealthy part of the island. There is no water, no vegetation, no shade. It has never been possible to establish a kitchen garden there: the soil is parched up by the wind: in consequence this part of the island is wild and uninhabited. If the Emperor had been settled at Plantation House, where there are fine trees, water, and gardens, he would there have been as well placed as this wretched country will allow…. The idea of adding wings to the bad building of Longwood, would involve all kinds of inconveniences. It would be enlarging a ruin, and occasioning for five or six months all the annoyance of workmen. Nothing is wished for at Longwood, but repairs. For two months it has rained into the rooms of Count Las Cases and Baron Gourgaud, rendering those lodgings very unwholesome. There should be at Longwood a reservoir of water, to serve, in case of fire. The roofs are mostly of pitched paper; and a single spark might burn down the house. A great quantity of linen, and other effects, have been rendered useless by the rats; and for this want of wardrobes and drawers. The books, brought by the Newcastle, have been, for fifteen days, exposed to the same damage, for want of bookcases or shelves, to place them on, &c.”

It feels like I’m trapped in my ribcage. Why can’t I come out? If communication is the key, why can’t the words unlock my prison and set me free? My teeth are gritted, keeping the words in. Keeping me in.
I’m falling apart at the seams and I don’t know where to turn. How do I bring it up, when my tongue is weighted with cement? My mouth doesn’t remember how to form the words ‘I’m not okay’ anymore – all I know is how to smile with flowered lips as the leaves rot within.
Some can smell it on my breath – the sour tang of decay. But they can’t dig deep enough to clean me out. Even I can’t dig deep enough.
So please, when I’m silent, know better than to think I’m watering my garden.
—  dead petals // abby, day 115
Meditating upon arriving at an oil slick

It is to myself as it is to the faces I can no longer wake to

caked in powdery salt, in the valley of the open blinds, gouache-like with a shallow relief.

Home. Outside my hut the algae bloom red - every year

and the sky spreads out, roars metallically overhead

mutely c/o/m/b/i/n/g the rhyme of the sphere, zen garden

putting it in place between shears.

Moving from her shoulder blades, to the small of her back. The plains.

Spearmint pushing its roots into the soil, from experience, from nothing, snatching sunken birds from the earth water

- yes, the gardener’s fingertips find a pulse, even in the red clay

and what he lost in the ground was papyrus; not the quill.

Monday 8:27am
I woke up with you on my mind.
You called me babe last night —
my heart is still pounding.

Tuesday 10:53pm
Today I realized we won’t work.
What we are is hurting her.
And I think she matters more to me than you do.

Wednesday 11:52pm
I broke things off with you today.
She barely said a word.
I’ve never regretted anything more than this.

Thursday 4:03pm
I shouldn’t have sent that message.
You shouldn’t have been so okay with receiving it.

Friday 9:57pm
I almost messaged you today.
I didn’t.

Saturday 8:49pm
I’m walking around town in search of alcohol.
They say that liquor numbs the pain of having a broken heart.
I want to put that to the test.

Sunday 2:32am
I heard you texted a girl you’ve never spoken to before.
I wonder if it’s because you’re trying to replace me.
I can’t help but wish you weren’t.
I thought I was irreplaceable.

—  a week with you on my mind, c.j.n.
People will continue to try and erase Peggy Carter and her significance in the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Even Captain America writer Chris Markus himself downplayed her influence by saying that she was “only a girl [Steve] kissed once in a moving car” to justify their decision to introduce a new romantic interest in Civil War — Sharon Carter, who just happens to be Peggy’s grand-niece. While it’s true that Sharon’s role in the comics is much bigger than Peggy’s, she was never properly established in the MCU. There is a jarring dissonance in the film where Steve drops everything to be a pallbearer at the funeral of the love of his life and then a few scenes later, he makes out with the grand-niece who gave the eulogy. It’s a romance beat critics are calling “unearned,” “slightly icky,” and “completely unnecessary.”
—  (x)

The Unnamed Princess of Dorne, mother of Doran, Elia, and Oberyn, friend to Joanna Lannister, and ruler of Dorne.

As the children splashed in the pools, Daenerys watched from amongst the orange trees, and a realization came to her. She could not tell the highborn from the low. Naked, they were only children. All innocent, all vulnerable, all deserving of long life, love, protection. ‘There is your realm,’ she told her son and heir, 'remember them, in everything you do.’ My own mother said those same words to me when I was old enough to leave the pools. It is an easy thing for a prince to call the spears, but in the end the children pay the price. For their sake, the wise prince will wage no war without good cause, nor any war he cannot hope to win.