But You See, This Crown Has Grown So Very Heavy, And I Have Become Tired Of Seeing Blood Red Stains Soiling

I don’t know, my favorite was always witch weather. That moment that in a gust of wind or in the rumbling sky or at the edge of a fog bank where suddenly, you feel different. A restlessness, a sense of longing for a place that does not exist. I don’t know if anyone else has felt the electric tense changing of that moment. It calls the magic to your skin. For a moment, you feel ancient and powerful and lonely, as if you forgot something important. Witch weather. For some reason, in that wild instant: you remember you are alive, and that means some part of you belongs to the everlasting.

Zoe Thaets by Zoey Grossman For Love & Lemons Summer 2019 Campaign 

You've heard of Fun With Dick and Jane, now get ready for

suffering with Gansey and Blue

Me: dangling hand off bed Demon: *grabs it* Me: what are we

5 things about the apocalypse

one.  after the sun is eaten, our shadows outgrow our bodies and the stars i took for gods go out. while i did not sleep i heard laughter—cacophonous, full of teeth. at the end i am eating tinned peaches and casting dice on the ground, in expectation of wings, of light, of anything but this stupefied cold, this silence which is an obscenity.

two.  the hungry are weeping as they walk. i have seen a man open another’s ribs like a pair of doors, unseal him where the chest is soft, harrow him for red. they eat only the heart, the first-formed part, cradled and chewed between two horrified hands. fed, they are hungrier. in this corrupt light, the gullet-red of appetite, their faces shine wet and without mercy.

three.  we send up prayers like the last of flares, phosphorus breaking upon midnight. the horizon is a hot wound parting: the dead climb out of their deep tenements, and we greet them, shaken. what does it matter that they are as pale as guilt, that their eyes do not seek us, that they shrink from us in dismay?

four.  yesterday, the words went from us. they left our books and maps and gravestones, emptied our histories and speeches and songs. they fled our throats, and made barren our mouths. in your bible genesis is a cenotaph; nothing is begotten. i hold your hands and i have no voice to speak your living name, to tell you that i am full of fear and relief.

five. it is written on a wall in jerusalem: τετέλεσται. the stars have already fallen, and she proclaims that she is the mouth of god. you go among the crowd to hear her speak, in the brick-husk of the chapel of the holy face. the look of her roars down your blood. men come for her at night, cut out her tongue and string her up by the neck in the muristan. you are kneeling in your kitchen as the earth shakes, and over that great distance you still hear her voice on the wind, causing the dust to rise. it is finished.

(six.  we held each other all night, deep in the rot, our arms helplessly tender. late was the coming of light, a whiteness so bright it seemed infernal, lifting us into a hollow morning, and what breath we were was shaken from us—

and we were dead a little while longer then, cool and adrift on the surface of the abandoned world.)

I bought a Marquee board

part 2 of that popular rich kids moodboard

where is that quote that's like "i love the way men love"