Baroque In The 21st Century

if i had a penny for every fictional hedonist called henry that is possibly probably gay for their best friend and ruined their lives/the lives of others 'for the aesthetic' i would have three pennies, which isn't much, but it's weird that it's happened thrice

ash by tracy k. smith

piranesi vi, giovanni piranesi // the haunting of hill house, dir. mike flanagan // bony legs, joanna cole & dirk zimmer // midsommar, dir. ari aster // murder of agamemnon, pierre-narcisse guérin // game of thrones: a man without honor, dir. david nutter // goodnight mommy, dir. veronika franz & severin fiala // it, dir. andy muschietti // hereditary, dir. ari aster // crimson peak, dir. guillermo del toro // the vigil, dir. keith thomas // house of leaves, mark z. danielewski // spike field, safdar abidi // i’m thinking of ending things, dir. charlie kaufman // the lighthouse, dir. robert eggers // relic, dir. natalie erika james // annihilation, dir. alex garland // anatomy, kitty horrorshow

me: finds intelligence hot

also me: unconditionally and furiously despises anyone who is even slightly better than me at anything

an incomplete collection of tweets i consider to be short poems

does it ever just hit you that, like, woah, i am a bundle of blood and organs and gold and stardust held together by skin and sunburn and scars and i exist with billions of other bags of skin in this silly little society on this silly little rock in this silly little universe that is impossibly massive and i am impossibly teeny tiny in the grand scheme of humanity, and humanity is impossibly teeny tiny in the grand scheme of everything and everyone and everything i know will be reduced to dust and ashes in a blink and there is nothing i can do to prevent the constant and omnipotent advance of time-

and then you're just like damn okay and go back to doing your silly little human business

i was born in the wrong era. i was supposed to live in the 80s. the 1880s. i was destined to be some rich, idle, ill-fated protagonist of a victorian gothic novel and smoke cigarettes and wear rich fabrics and carry a cane with a carved top and write long, rambling letters in an illegible font to some close friend i may or may not be utterly infatued by and drink red wine at lavish dinners every other night and discuss philosophy and hedonism and sprawl dramatically across chaise longues and and-

feeling a little goofy, might take part in an ancient ritual in the middle of a forest with a group of insufferable greek students and accidentally kill a farmer whilst in a state of pure enlightenment, idk

'spit' being the past tense of 'spit' doesn't sit right with me.

hot girls be like 'my comfort characters 🤗💐💕' then name the most deranged and psychopathic dredges of humanity who have never felt an ounce of comfort in their life