★me too ★y'all ain't even know ★i love me some krsna ★anyway ★good night
★please lawd don't tell me i sound like this ★i mean by tone more than anything ★i know i can sound like a fucking valley girl sometimes but omg ★anyway ★good night
Frank and Micah’s amazing wedding video.
★max irl ★friend's wedding ★also happens to have taken place where i work ★oh and i was in the wedding ★anyway
★why are all fx series wives self-centered emotionally unreasonable cunts? ★things i have observed by watching too much television ★anyway ★good night
……..there are more? …… »; Give them to me.
★there you are ★all i can do is laugh ★no boners ★just lulz ★ok maybe halfies ★a semi-chub ★anyway ★good night ★miya ★yukke ★mucc ★gheeeeeeeei
I keep thinking it’s fuckin’ Thursday for some reason and I’m all WTF YOU GUYS POSTED A FUCKING LOT TODAY but nope, I’ve just been at work for ages and most of you fuckers had nothing better to do.
★anyway ★back to back-tracking
Fuck all y’all, and Elvis tomorrow, too.
Gonna watch Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels until I pass out.
★not really fuck all y'all ★i luh y'all ★most o' y'all ★anyway ★guy ritchie is gr8 ★night
★cannot handle sharks this morning ★lord ★anyway ★getting ready ★hopefully today goes smoothly ★i hate when bands have openers
Reblog with your favorite singer, two favorite guitarists, bassist and drummer. :3
This is fucking hard… um…
★i am most impartial to bassists you guys ★um ★anyway
→ Shave and a Haircut
I mentioned last night that the video for Kiyoharu’s song “Carnation” made me want to write a short story.
This is what came out. Feedback is appreciated, either in reply or ask box form. Honesty in such replies is even more cherished. It’s weird and disjointed and full of metaphorical leaps of viscerally flimsy prose, but it’s something. I have not written on my own in so, so long, and it’s been longer still since I’ve actually been *inspired* to write something like I was for this.
Please, be not gentle.
Perhaps it was the suspension of identity that made hotels so comfortable. Anyone could have rented this room, anyone could have spread themselves against the bed, anyone could have stood on the balcony, feeling the cloying embrace of a deep summer’s air. It was home when the real thing was too far away, too scary, didn’t exist. It was whatever you wanted it to be. The clean scent of the linens soothed and her eyes traced the cracks along the ceiling, road tripping the water stained marks diligently even as her mobile on the bedside table buzzed, moving itself slightly on top of her clutch, nudging against the cigarettes. They were partners, those two. He would call, she would hang up, and then she would smoke. He probably would, too. Sometimes she called him, and in those cases, she was usually already puffing away.
Her mind was blank, gloriously uninhabited by thoughts, because she couldn’t bare to grasp the shrieking beast of anger and fear, neon signs of weakness, that rushed in to fill her head if she stopped for even a moment to let them in. Perhaps they were very polite guests, but she couldn’t risk it, not now. They could tear the whole house apart, slit her throat, who knew.
At coffee, she remembered feeling herself put on a hard face, licking her lips at him as she primped her hair, a curl of blue smoke touching her cheek and then rolling up, the cigarette perched between her gloved fingers. It was a fighting stance. The sex was a weapon, a shield. They had fought one another valiantly for years with such arsenals. Seasoned warriors, as both of them were, fought by instinct after a point. Clearly, that point had come. Nothing was wrong. Nothing was amiss. Not yet. Not for a long time. And yet their love had crumbled and exploded in their own frightful, worried imaginations for years, while the real love had fortified its borders at the prophecy, suspicious to a fault.
An hour passed and the phone on the bedside table had stopped ringing. Her ears felt cold, the tears had dried against them, rolled there as she laid on the bed, still trekking the ceiling’s roads, still on that journey of mindlessness, having missed the state border and crossed into her sorrow miles and miles back. He wasn’t coming, that’s what was going on. He wouldn’t show. He didn’t care. He didn’t love her anymore. It was cold on the water, he’d said. Surely, he just couldn’t be bothered.
It was, indeed, cold on the water. Under the sound of the cars and people, the ocean hissed and sucked and sighed, humming softly, and for over an hour, he’d been switching from the car to the corner, warming in the front seat of the beat up old sedan, and standing under the street light, facing the three hotels. He couldn’t remember her having given him a room number or hotel. He’d been calling for hours. His mobile was dead. He could have gone inside each, gone up to the reception desks and smiled, asked for her name, found her, hunted her down, but… But what? He knew the answer, felt it hissing at the back of his ear “cowardice”, and he had become so jaded to it his pride did not even furrow its brow. In the car, he’d called, at the corner, he’d stood and watched the balconies of all three hotels, hoping, silently begging her to step out and smoke, to see her, to count the floors and the windows and find her, the bang on the door and…
But he never saw her face. Never saw her figure or caught a glimpse of her striking a match. Perhaps she had not even checked in yet. Perhaps she was on the beach. The hissing tickled behind his ear again and he had not checked there, either.
If she knew, if she stepped onto the balcony and saw him, what would she think? Would she swoon and wave and call out to him? Would she smile? In his wallet was a photo with evidence of such an event, but his memories of the real thing felt as unmoving and flat as the picture. It had been so long since she had really smiled at him. The armor weighed down the corners of her mouth. Perhaps if she saw him now, standing under the light, searching for her, she would only turn around and disappear. Maybe she already had.
He checked his mobile for the time and the screen did not even pretend to light up. Dead. Gone. He huddled into his coat and scanned the balconies again, turning and going back towards the car, then further. There was a payphone by a bus stop and he took shelter from the wind behind it, reaching into his pocket and holding out his catch, fishing through the coins for quarters. A wispy thought crossed his mind like a smear of paint across a moving canvas. He counted his change, reaching into his pocket to dig out the rest. On its own, it seemed useless, just odds and ends, not making any difference, but much of it together could afford a bit more comfort. When she straightened his tie before work, the time he had written her a poem on the back of a napkin, the times he had asked her about her day, the way she set his keys by the door so he wouldn’t forget them, the leftovers in the fridge when either worked late, they were change in a pocket, on a counter, in a cup holder, useless and small. If they could have gathered them all up and cashed in, perhaps it would be enough to sign some treatise, to ward off the fear, to lay down the armor and weapons.
He dropped three pennies and a dime and pushed two quarters into the machine, dialing her number, letting it ring three times before hanging up.
★this is the kind of shit i'm talking about ★this is what this novel will be ★this is how i write when i listen to kiyoharu ★because he is wonderful and everyone should fucking listen to him ★anyway ★back to writing ★blah blah blah
★i need to be coddled i think ★hugged ★lied to to be made to think people like me ★that sort of thing ★anyway ★posts people will ignore :D
Max. 24. Boy. Audio engineer. अहिंसा. Pagan. Writer. Queer. Photographer. Fan of: メリー, MUCC, Dir en grey, Kiyoharu, cali≠gari, Poppy Z. Brite. Loves: music, tea, nature, yoga, wit, art, Doctor Who, Supernatural. Not so fond of: trivial bullshit. Past: fog of clinical depression, crippling anxiety, no self-worth. Present: transitive power of the universe. Future: completely fucking liberated. Follow if you like, unfollow if you don't. Sometimes NSFW (*＾ω＾*)ノ☆
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