#AND THE REPRISAL THEME IS. SO.

[xamaxenta]

This game is ruining my life

[vaggieslefteye]

MORE THAN ANYTHING - REPRISE ↳ from Hazbin Hotel Season One (2024): 1x08 - "The Show Must Go On"

[sapphoismymuse]

don’t imagine the dwarves reprising misty mountains at thorin, kíli, and fíli’s funeral

don’t imagine how instead of thorin leading, bilbo does, recalling thorin’s voice all those nights ago from the other room

don’t imagine everyone’s voices cracking as they sing about the journey and all the things they went through together

don’t imagine how wrong it feels, missing three of their voices in the harmonies

[midnightdemonhunter]

Encore!

[sparklyslug]

No I mean the Avatar live action isn’t overall GOOD but it’s got its moments and it’s not good in interesting ways and I will certainly watch all 8 episodes

Plus I mean the Zuko and Iroh stuff is wonderful and on some level that’s kinda all I need

[borealopelta]

listening to the orchestral version of return to the kingdom of fife for the first time. already cried twice about it. btw.

[storm-driver]

yknow, the after the battle version of dearly beloved that plays at the end of kh2 is laced with so much sorrowful nostalgia for me.

there are a lot of memories embedded in KH2 for me, it was my comfort game as a kid. it was the game i turned to after bad days at school, and the game i showed to friends in hopes they understood why i loved it.

it's specifically how id finish the game and think "that... wasn't a happy ending, was it?" Roxas and Naminé disappeared, but Sora and Kairi are together!!! and for a second, you can think "at least they can rest easy..."

but then, that after the battle theme hits. im staring at that last screen with my battle stats shown, and there's something about it that hurts. maybe it's the composition. maybe it's the single instrument. i don't know. but the end of kh2 was always so fuckin sad to me. that music, I think, played a huge part in it.

[badlydrawnmanic]

me trying to explain the romantic tension between veronica and martha in seventeen (reprise) to my d&d group (completely unprompted) like

[dirtbra1n]

hanzawa masato doesn’t like sundays.

the shrine won’t be performing any exorcisms today. to be more specific, the miko that greets him feels his forehead with a warm hand and decides that he’s in good health.

he doesn’t want her to know how little he values her judgment, so he bows to offer a prayer instead.

—

he’d woken up this morning without having had any dreams. he went out of his way, on a morning that was over-bright and unsettlingly still, to make a trip to the shrine. because he hadn’t had any dreams. for all intents and purposes, a full night’s rest.

a monument to the places his mind has been lately, that this was cause for alarm.

barring that, lack of dreams notwithstanding, masato woke up just before the sun rose. the statements made about darkness before dawn are wrong, but his house is old and construction in the neighborhood leaves it eclipsed by increasingly taller buildings that are increasingly growing occupied by increasingly unneighborly neighbors.

the statements made about darkness before dawn are wrong, but when masato wakes up his room is dark and somewhere between too cold and not cold enough.

he doesn’t think it’s particularly scientific—knows this, truthfully—but he’s become familiar with the following pattern:

open your eyes first thing in the morning; you don’t want to be alive. throw the sheets from your legs and feel as the warmth is leached from your body. roll onto one side and feel as your ribs resist the desire to cave in. check the time and feel as the numbers rattle hollowly, meaninglessly, in your brain.

your name is hanzawa masato. you don’t feel tethered to any of the unkind physicality happening to “you”.

you want to die more than anything.

and then he stands, finally, and moves to go about his routine, and if he wasn’t put through an especially brutal wringer overnight, he’ll forget his ideation and go about things the way he always does.

if he was put through that wringer, he can forget. he’ll make himself forget. he’ll learn how to make himself forget.

—

he doesn’t intend to die, is the problem. that simplicity would be a blessing.

the shadows cast before him were inky, stretched long. the trains rattle near-silently on the tracks, low rumbling swallowing the impact of his own footsteps. the footsteps of other people, though sparse, jab like sharpened stones into his ears.

days like these feel fake. days like these make his dreams feel real. days like these make masato feel a little less than alive.

he would feel stupid saying so out loud, but he’s starting to believe that no one’s as haunted by ghosts as ghosts themselves.

he doesn’t know what brought him to this conclusion.

(a lie, mostly. if he had to hazard a guess: an answer lying somewhere between his exhaustion and reluctance to fall asleep, his wishing to die but fear of death, the restless shifting—currently absent—river.)

the thing about all of this is that masato doesn’t actually believe in ghosts.

not real ones, anyway. if anything—anyone—is going to drift aimlessly through the halls, holding a lantern or candlestick or knife, reflection held in its edge tortured and gaunt, it’s going to be him. an offhanded, deeply involved joke at which to have a sadistic laugh.

he has his obligations, though. of course, the knife would be fake—the edge of it dull and without character, not reflecting much of anything, harmless.

he thinks tashiro would think it’s funny. after the shock and fear and flustered anger wore off, at least.

—

real or not, the house he grew up in—the house he lives in now, the house currently, on only this day once a week, occupied by only him—is haunted.

—

he hasn’t forgotten. if it matters. he’s never been very good at lying to himself, and this one was an awfully slow sort of deal. the sort of deal that is just as much a pain to forget as it is to remember.

there was very little tenderness. he couldn’t quite stretch his legs all the way out, couldn’t reach his arms out over his head. his fingers were cold and useless, deadened, slow. the air pushing in and flowing out of his lungs seemed to whistle through the puncture wound in his chest.

he wishes that he could learn; there was no tenderness, in truth. time moved slowly, if at all, abandoning him to sit stiff in the water, soaked to the bone. abandoning him to finish dying in isolation.

he woke up, a few hours ago now, sweaty and splayed out, drowning only in his sheets, and it was an awfully slow sort of deal, but it couldn’t make him forget.

masato’s never been very good at forgetting things, either.

try as he might to toss them out, two facts cling like hooks to his skin:

1.    hanzawa masato is a still-living human being, and

2.    he doesn’t want to die.

(if he had to hazard a second guess, like he was on some sick introspective game show, masato would say that all anyone ever wants is to live, but living’s hard, and it hurts. it never stops hurting.

he figures—reluctantly, he doesn’t want to spend as much time as he does mired in unwinnable existential debates—that if it’s going to hurt living and hurt dying, he might as well live.)

—

masato doesn’t know where that puncture wound in his chest even came from.

—

I’m at the shrine

Like… for fun?

spiritual enrichment

Of course. Silly question.

Mom says to buy yourself a charm.

which one

…Health?

she said love. I’m buying YOU a love charm

I DON’T NEED IT.

—

poorer, he walks home as evening settles. the clouds that had been crowding the edges of the sky have hung themselves low over the city; no moon.

masato navigates mostly by bleeding sunlight and does not grieve. though his eyes insist otherwise, there is no river.

he carries three charms. good health for his mother, love for his older brother, evil warding for himself. he doesn’t know what compelled him to buy the third.

worn through by the prickly feeling at his skin, he turns his head stiffly to check—there is still no river.

at present, there isn’t anything worth his grief. one pocket lighter, the other heavier, but as insistent as his older brother was that he not buy the damned love charm, it’s not like masato doesn’t know that he’ll just as stubbornly insist on paying him back.

tomorrow, though. they’re not back until tomorrow.

abandonment, maybe. if he was grieving. he both had a dream worse than usual this morning and he didn’t. he was alone in that house and he wasn’t. it’s haunted when he’s there and not when he isn’t, but his mom insists that he house-sit every fucking sunday like the house would be the one pleading “how could you leave me here alone?” and not him.

but it’s not grief, and he’s not pleading. because he won’t let weird dreams count, no one even died.

it’s a pedestrian street, glossy shimmering concrete. everyone but him is walking right where the water would be.

there is no river. his chest aches. he knows better than to entertain the idea.

[rebornrosess]

yes i am excited for season 4 of succession but i am equally as excited for nicholas britell’s SCORE for season 4 of succession

[parallasso]

im so awful to listen to anything muscial with because i never shut up. i watched nerdy prudes must die with my friend recently and so many times id interrupt to go "omg musical motif! we hear that line before, oh that bit comes from a previous hatchetfield song- omg thats a rythm from earlier but shifted slightly-"

give me a chance to analyze music and god i wont shut up

[supercantaloupe]

🔥+ opera

love the fact that two of the three of these asks i got were exactly the same prompt, lol. anyway i'm gonna say it: i like it when operas have repetition in their arias and recurring motifs throughout the opera!! #bringbackthedacapo. and i like having distinct sections of recit and aria. late romantic and modernist stans dni i guess...i simply think that the music is better when it's memorable sorry 💖

[ask meme]

[noxtivagus]

REMEMBER that one cutscene in shadowbringers w. ykyk those two blondes 🥹

[romeowho]

if i had written the goosebumps musical, story of the phantom would've been like the second song, and the story of the play would've happened around when story of the phantom is now and would be a reprise of story of the phantom

[aparticularbandit]

so i'm gonna take a moment to talk about the composition of mr. monokuma after class (which for some reason is translated here as mr. monokuma's tutoring, but like. not gonna fight it), and i'm gonna do it in the least musical terms possible because i don't know - or don't remember! - what those terms are.

and like. there are two distinct themes/segments in the piece - the main theme, which it opens with and then repeats once (with variation), and then the second theme, which is kind of like a cool down segment that does a trick where you think it's going to end but then doesn't and goes right back to that double loop of the main theme.

etc.

and you could be tricked into thinking that it's literally just a double loop of the main theme because the change the second time through is subtle, but it's important.

roughly 50 seconds in (52, if i'm precise, maybe 51 if i didn't look quick enough), there's a strings section. it's all of two notes.

but for a song that otherwise feels like junko's out here throwing a party, that subtle, blink-and-you'll-miss-it section is very much not a party. it's a little minor tragedy.

the first time i caught it, i thought it was just there in the end, but no, it's there in the first bit of the theme, too.

and like, yes, you can make the argument that it's about the surrounding all the things and how tense they are, but like. mr. monokuma after class is the herald of monokuma himself. it is his theme more than it is anything else, which means it's just as much junko's theme.

and that little bit of bitter underlying the chaotic dance that is the rest of the song is a signifier of her frame of mind - of the mastermind's frame of mind underlying the chaotic dance that is monokuma.

and it is so important to me.

[mumbledramblings]

it's so funny to me how i manly post about bad luck in a goofy light, but when getting into his head-space, i listen to the silent hill ost.