“Rejoice despite the fact this world will hurt you
And rejoice despite the fact this world will kill you
And rejoice despite the fact this world will tear you to shreds
Rejoice because you’re trying your best!” (x)
(Source: octopifer)
quietscreeches replied to your post: quietscreeches replied to your photo: One of the…
Not yet! and I’m waiting to send mine just so I can make 100% completely sure I have the address right so I’m gonna send it when I get yours haha
Haha sounds good! It should get to you in the next day or two! I think I put it in the mail on Monday or Tuesday =)
quietscreeches replied to your photo: One of the new stationary sets @harmonhannah…
oh my gosh my letters will be so plain compared to yours!
haha that doesn’t matterrrrr 8P I’m just excited to get your letter!! Did you get the one I sent you? 8)
One of the new stationary sets @harmonhannah picked out for me in Epcot 😃 I can’t wait to write letters to my penpals with it!
Fuck Yeah Feminist Thor.
IM SCREAMING I JUST FOUND THE PERFECT BLOG EXCUSE ME
Show yourselves, corrupted children
He had strode, dauntless, jersey greying
with the tarnished air of the underground.
Two companions he brought-
First, loyal bat,
smelling of white ash,
hefted with practiced ease.
Second, the
angel, the
halo, the
Alpha of the
Omega, crowning him a
throneless king.
I am the voice of forgiveness that will eliminate your calamitous forms
His voice, rigid as the bat he swung,
rode the smoke through the tunnels, plunged into
crevices and shafts.
Each fibre and sinew was
tight as piano-strings.
Cleats dug into
steel flooring.
Knuckles whitened
and brow-line hardened.
He heard their voices,
scuttling
amidst the walls like
centipedes,
each chattering leg a whisper.
They coiled inside his ears and
his jaw was set hard in loathing.
In loathing, he cradled their
odious voices, savoring
that they were here
and would be gone,
anticipation of
that space between moments,
of transience, where
crude vitality
faded into
nether.
To render the spectres naught
had called,
their tantalizing whispers
had summoned.
Not the
shuffling, groaning children
above,
Pallid asthmatics who gasp for
smoke,
straddling metal piers
above plastic waters,
For them he bellows his challenge?
No, for he was born of the
Red,
of strife,
in the shadow of calamity.
It was a Red god, in a Red Room
that called him to plate;
Father begotten by the Son,
And Holy Ghosts wafted here with the smoke.
His god was
monochrome,
hard and solid as the wood he carried.
For men born of gods are motley things,
but gods born of men are pristine as nothingness.
In creation does God not create himself?
He could smell them,
saccharine tumors.
Worms that writhed in the belly of a dead world
restored to feeble,
degenerate life,
pock-marked and rotting.
They encircled him-
Eight gape-mouthed spectres,
mottled, ephemeral flesh
formed a haggard wall about him.
A space between moments
A switch being flipped
A page being turned
And the bat came up,
the wheel was set to spin
Prepare yourselves to suffer my judgment.
Poem by Andrew
