Pigeons are doves. They are rock doves, and I wonder if we began to call them that if people would hesitate to hate them, as doves have that history as messengers of peace. It is true that in my neighborhood nobody hates the mourning doves, dusky and elegant with wings that squeak as if they flap on rusty hinges. They roost on the wires like little Audrey Hepburns, while the pigeons troll the ground, tough and fat, some of them look like they should be smoking cigarettes. They look poor and banged up, like they could kick the mourning doves’ asses but are wise to the divide-and-conquer tactics we use on one another, so they coo wearily at the mourning doves and waddle forth in search of scavenged delights. What you may not know is when you call a pigeon “a rat with wings” you have given it a compliment. The only thing a rat lacks is a pair of wings to lift it, so you have named the pigeon perfectly. When you say to me, “I hate pigeons,” I want to ask you who else you hate. It makes me suspicious.
I once met a girl who was so proud to have hit such a bird on her bicycle, I swear, I thought that it was me she hit. I felt her handlebars in my stomach and now it is your job to feel it also. The pigeons are birds, they are doves. They are the nature of the city and the ones who no one loves. When people say they hate pigeons, I want to ask them if they hate themselves, too. Does it prick the well of your loathing? Do they make you feel dirty and ashamed? Are you embarrassed about how little or how much you have, for how you have had to hustle? Being dirty is not a problem for the pigeon. You can ask it, “How do you feel about having the city coating your feathers, having the streets gunked up in the crease of your eye?” and the pigeon would say, “Not a problem.” You will now stop blaming the pigeon. It is not the pigeon’s fault. The pigeon was once a dove, and then we built our filthy empire up around it, came to hate it for simply thriving in the midst our decay, came to hate it for not dying. The pigeon is your ally. They are chameleons, gray as the concrete they troll for scraps, at night they huddle and sing like cats. Their necks are glistening, iridescent as an oil-slick rainbow, they mate for life, and they fly.
Michelle Tea, Against Memoir. [emphasis mine]
I´m sorry, but I just had to reblog it.
Show your love for this wonderful man~ :I <3
I know you all love this crazy bastard~
Saruhiko confessing to Misaki he's the love of his life
Fushimi stumbles over it quite a bit, trying to find the words to say it because this sort of declaration never fits well in his mouth. Fushimi wants to say it, wants to tell Yata exactly how much he means – 'I love you' isn't adequate enough to describe what he feels every time he looks at Yata, every time Yata smiles in his direction. Fushimi knows every bit of Yata, knows the way that his eyes light up with affection and how he means every word he says, he's learning that when Yata says 'I love you' that Yata feels it with every inch of his body. Sometimes Fushimi thinks he could teach a Masters in Misaki, in the slope of his shoulders and the curve of his back, the beat of his heart and the way that he breathes. 'I love you' is far too simple for what Fushimi wants to tell Yata every time he opens his mouth and somehow even that's so hard to say, his mouth always struggling to form the words, ending in a tongue click when his tongue gets tied, and Yata still just smiles and puts an arm around his shoulders and says it for him, I love you.
But sometimes Fushimi finds the words, lying in bed side by side and brushing Yata's bangs away from his face, whispering it into a kiss against Yata's shoulders, breathing it into Yata's mouth when they're tangled together. In a hundred lifetimes Fushimi knows he wouldn't ever love anyone else, couldn't ever imagine loving anyone else. He loved Yata from the moment Yata came when he called, from the time Yata broke down all his walls and grabbed his hand, dragged him along out of somewhere dark and into the sun, and Fushimi won't ever be able to apologize enough for the way he shattered that paradise. He didn't understand it as love then but he does now – that he loves Yata now and he loved Yata then and when he struggles through the words Yata's breath catches and his eyes shake and then he pulls Fushimi close, both hearts beating fast. Their hands that are usually so sure around each other fumble along buttons and zippers and Yata kisses him so deep Fushimi isn't sure that he can breathe at all beyond what he takes from Misaki's mouth, but that's fine – they were together then, they're together now, and Fushimi clutches at Yata's arms and repeats it under his breath like a chant, an anchor to hold onto, 'I love you, I love you, I love you.'
Scott Pilgrim Takes Off, an all-new original series starring Michael Cera & the rest of the Scott Pilgrim cast, releasing November 17th only on Netflix.
Future Investigation team hcs…. i think abt them alot
drew the phantom girlies in some of my fits
some souyo that i didn't feel like sharing really :'3333
Pspspsps hey K Project fans, like/rb this if ur still into K
Lu currently in my Trails phase feel free to talk to me Icon by https://www.deviantart.com/rose-fox-lp
218 posts