Ryuusghost - Claude

Graveyards >>> vsco hangouts

@pridefulsuggestion & @threshold-suggestion / yumi sakugawa/ joy harjo / @demiiwhiffin / ask polly

conspiracy theories reblog if u agree

New England Gothic

You’re walking in the woods in late autumn. A crow caws, somewhere. You step on something, and hear a sharp crack. You look down. It’s a bone.

The clocktower in the town square has been broken for as long as anyone can remember. One day, it rings.

The leaves are turning. Last year, the brilliant oranges and reds lasted well after they fell. Now, the leaves are grey. They crumble into ash when touched.

The ocean is cold, and unrelenting. The waves crash against the cliffs. A captain yells out to his crew, but there is no ship.

You have been walking in a graveyard for hours. Someone is watching you. You turn, but no one is there. You read the gravestone at your feet. Your name is carved into it. A rabbit darts in front of you, and you shiver.

The mountains stretch on for miles. Endless, repeating mountains, stretching so far into the horizon that it seems that once the mountains end, so does the world. 

You drive down the backroads at midnight. The trees are impossibly dark. Something runs in front of your headlights. It was a deer. It has to be a deer.

There are four churches on the same street. At five p.m. on the dot, the bells ring. They are deafening. 

The sunflowers have died. They stand all winter, bleak omens of what’s to come.

You are looking for witching stones in the river. Something shiny catches your eye, and you fish it out. It’s an iron cross. It’s cold. You toss it back.

dark academia playlist

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0arpg4QrCy5HWOMooTKgrh?si=dJ-ysuXBTCCQVbii9rNyZw

TERFs, arguably more than any other vocal political group, insist upon the body as a defining part of a person’s subjectivity, — that is, as an identitarian marker for what you can and cannot (or should and should not be able to) do in our society. [...] It is a position that would more readily be denounced as ableist or racist in any other context in which the body is insisted upon as a measure of your right and proper identity.

Matt Colquhoun, "Total Recoil: Notes on the Body in Mark Fisher’s Feminism"

I love the four-horsemen. its such a cool take on the apocalypse. Bible did good

One. Famine is a teenage girl, sipping cappucino foam through the holes of her gas mask. Her eyes are hidden behind tainted black; when you pass her, you see the bright reflection of something red behind the glass. You saw it, but it did not happen. Two. Hundreds of people in the streets are bawling but one of them stays silent. He wears the oil-greased overall of the workshop around the corner. It reads Conquest. His teeth are razor sharp and glisten in the dying sun above. It reminds you of a butter knife. You blink and he’s gone. Three. Four men in posh busniess suits drop dead to the earth. A middle aged lady looks at you with a knife in her hand and a gun at her hip. Someone far away calls out for her. Her name is something British, but you’re sure they called her War. She throws her head back and starts to laugh. It chills you to the bones. Four. An old man smiles at you from a park bench while he throws rotten corn at the pigeons. You realize the pigeons are actually vultures. When you look at the old man again, Death looks back at you. It doesn’t matter. The world around you is already dead.

the four horsemen of the apocalypse, re-imagined as vigilantes in a post apocalyptic setting | r.m