Listen Atla Fandom We Don’t Talk Enough About Iroh’s Redemption Arc.

soukoku's story in art and poetry: chuuya exhibition

— on anger and emotions

dedicated to @vminiesvsoulmates + he helped me with some quotes <3

jeanette winterson // catherine gildiner - good morning, monster // ashe vernon - not a girl // unknown // cover art from war of the foxes, by richard siken // melanie martinez - alphabet boy // lora mathis - leave me alone to do it // shane mccrae - the pillar was a man he had been stretched so long and thin // melanie martinez - cake // nicole rifkin // maggie stiefvater - blue lily, lily blue // unknown // unknown // joy harjo - an american sunrise // nakahara chuuya - for the soiled sorrow

           ↳ Welcome To Night Vale: Episode 37 - The Action by Joseph Fink, Jeffrey Cranor & Glen David Gold

boob window showing off the gaping hole in my chest

“How sad it is, That someone with a life barely lived. Is ready to die.”

— Philippa A. Madsen (via wnq-writers)

Narsil. Broken but not destroyed

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost; in

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be king.

Just thinking about Will, in this exact moment, hearing and feeling Hannibal's heart pounding and finally knowing the answer to his question, "Is he in love with me?"—that raw certainty hitting him firsthand. Like damn.

I believe authors should be cryptic and unhelpful in the interpretation of their own work or even act like they’re dead and never comment on it ever

Ballad of a beautiful woman

I wake up in a strange room, the sheets are sticky and the clothes are dirty.       Last night my body was not mine. We met in a bar, he offered me a drink and told me I was beautiful;       that I was hot. He told me: “I enjoy your company. Come with me.” He brought me to an art gallery, he showed me what he liked, he asked for my thoughts. He kissed me, he tied my wrists: he told me to beg,       he called me a whore. He hit me, I didn’t like it. He hit me again.       I asked for more.

It’s morning and I wake up in another bed. This man was less rough, he kissed my skin and caressed my body;       he said that a woman like me deserved worship. We met again. And again, and again. He became more talkative during sex. He started saying that I had a perfect body, that I was a gift from the gods,       that I was made for him. When I told him I was moving he begged me to stay.       Two weeks later he was at my door.       He broke in.       I was on the bed.

I wake up in the middle of the night. I’m alone. Many men approached me during the evening, each of them with a lascivious look.       I turned them down. I laid in my bed and I cried.

      There is no love for me in this world. Only pity and shallow lust.

thoughts on being gay?

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No— it was the sort of seeing that unfastens the lacrimae rerum, tears of things. We drowned, not knowing we stood in water.

— Maya C. Popa, from "The Tears of Things," Wound Is the Origin of Wonder