BEHOLD!!!!!!

for the second time my hopes of having a tasteful, respectable spotify wrapped this year have been dashed by josh groban playing the titular character of a historical musical based on a piece of old literature in which he is a sad lonely guy in a toxic relationship and at odds with society (and there's a failed elopement)

i’d rot with you too, if i could

tumblr post by @girlhorror​ / revenge by xxxtentacion / the lovers of valdaro / lazarus rises (amongst other things) by @icaruspendragon​ / mahmoud darwish / gravestone of james robert irwin and millie michaels irwin / wuthering heights by emily brontë

look all i'm asking for is forehead kisses and academic validation and autumn and museum dates and cold bedsheets and misty mornings and baggy sweaters okay???????

hate when folk call the Sun “our nearest star” no you dweebs that’s OUR STAR! After everything she's done for you and you want to compare her to some lightyears away ass nobody called some shit like Guncho 785B? We're not spinning eternally around any old ball, we’re three deep in the window on board the Sol Train and she did NOT provide the catering, the itinerary and all the fuel to share credit with some two-bit Proxima Centauri hack. point to these nuts in a constellation while you're at it. i love the sun

Sorry I’m not here, I’m mentally at Francis's country house thinking about when Henry smile there is a slight chip in one of his front teeth and it gave his smile a very engaging quality

i don't want a hot girl summer, i want to go and live in a crumbling, weather-worn lighthouse on the edge of a remote scottish town and wear turtlenecks and cableknit sweaters and and own a big shaggy dog and speak just a little too fondly of my late husbands mysterious death (i totally killed him) and knit scarves in the ruddy light of a mottled oil lamp and clutch a mug of hot tea whilst a storm pelts bullets of icy rain against the glass and-

i find it so charming that so many ancient civilisations - if not most of them - believed in gods of some sort. like, the world was so inexplicably incredible that, to them, it could be the work of nothing but the divine.

sometimes i wanna be red nails and cigarettes and cat-eye sunglasses, but then again i wanna be lipgloss and rose petals and lace, but at the same time i also like baggy sweaters and second-hand book stores and polaroids, but then i think about long scarves and fog and well-worn books, but then i see fingerless gloves and bruised knees and tangled jewellery, but also what about messy braids and daisy chains and knee-high grass, but then-

i miss autumn. i miss short days and long nights. i miss the stars. i miss chunky scarves and knitted beanies and thick sweaters. i miss withered orange leaves underfoot. i miss lukewarm rain. i miss cold winds that smell of nature and death. i miss spending grey days reading classics by candle light. i miss herbal teas and bitter coffee. i miss the sting of ice in my fingers. i miss the harsh softness as the world slowly settles down and gets ready to die.

"self-care," i whisper to myself for the fifth that day as i create a new pinterest board to save my silly little pictures to instead of acknowledging the ever-growing pile of revision looming on my consciousness