🚨🚨🚨🚨Hello, My Name Is Hani Hamid And I Am From Gaza. I Am Writing To You With A Heavy Heart.

It begins...

@duothings

Literally what I think about when I design angels. Wings and halo. Always wings and halo. Their purpose, what they do, who they are; and then how it shapes them.

Aren't most angel wings actually like swan wings or somwthing like?

We need more angels with colors, design, and wings based on all manner of winged beasties. So ok "demons" get bat wings. Fine. Whatever. (If they're fallen angels they should get "corrupted whatever they were as angels" wings) But Angels could and should be all manner of birds from peacock to finch to any flying feathered beastie.

Yes this is sparked by @practically-an-x-man. And now I wish I could draw a heavenly host based on this concept.

And now this is canon in my universe.

I'm sick of internet negativity, so let's combat it: reblog this and saying something nice/pay a compliment to the prev in the tags.

chat how am I supposed to revise an essay under these conditions

@duothings @romolossesit hehe

YES EXACTLY YOU GET IT YOU UNDERSTAND

Aren't most angel wings actually like swan wings or somwthing like?

We need more angels with colors, design, and wings based on all manner of winged beasties. So ok "demons" get bat wings. Fine. Whatever. (If they're fallen angels they should get "corrupted whatever they were as angels" wings) But Angels could and should be all manner of birds from peacock to finch to any flying feathered beastie.

Yes this is sparked by @practically-an-x-man. And now I wish I could draw a heavenly host based on this concept.

And now this is canon in my universe.

Memory of a Soup

In my kitchen bubbles a soup.

Simmering around a bundle of scraps

are pieces of a meal left to remain.

Sitting in a bag for months at a time,

Meals that I shared with people,

Ones that aren't here now.

It sits alone now,

with me, like my soup,

in a room with no other people.

Sitting in tinting water are the scraps,

steeping liquid with the essence of time.

There is a deep gold as remain.

Golden memories remain,

And they are made liquid now.

A pot containing fragmented time.

Is soup really about soup?

Is it about the scraps,

or perhaps about the people?

I think about the people,

as I strain the golden remain

from the old, useless scraps.

They are a piece of it now,

a droplet of warm memory in soup.

A way to contain months of time.

The golden stock burbles over time.

Still, there come no people,

and I am alone with my soup.

Within its quiet flavor, I remain,

tasting pieces of memory in the now.

But all I feel like is discarded scraps.

I put new scraps

in a bag to freeze time.

The soup boils now,

and yet there are no people.

A pile of ingredients remain

alone in a pot of unshared soup.

There's no memory in these new scraps

because there are no people.

It boils away for hours at a time,

until theres only ingredients that remain.

I eat alone and quiet now

as the warmth of love leaves my soup.

-------

autistic folks when their routine gets disrupted, and they don't get alone time when they're supposed to get alone time

thinking about mainer miku... in her worn snapback and cargo shorts and a shittily tucked tee shirt under her canvas vest and these big stupid sandals. she wrangles lobsters with her fists.

since the old version of this post was flagged for 'adult content'...

reblog this post if your account is a trans safe space or owned by a trans person!

along with that, reblog if your account is a trans non-binary spectrum safe space or owned by someone on the trans enby spectrum!