eg0died - Tumblr blog

[eg0died]

◟          *          closed,     to     @explosiives.           ↷ at:     hotel     calgarie's     shitty     bar.

*                        and     it’s     six     types     of     fresh     hell,          signed          /          sealed          /          delivered     in     dingiest     corner     of     new     york     that     𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛     can     muster:          about     as     neutral     as     it     can     get,     hotel     calgarie     is     safe     for     this     shit.          whiskey     burns,     highway     to     HELL     down     the     velvet     of     his     throat,          third     one          since     he’s     taken     place     at     this     𝗀𝗈𝖽𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗌𝖺𝗄𝖾𝗇     𝗁𝖾𝗅𝗅𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖾               —               and     it     begs     the     goddamn     question,     𝐡𝐨𝐰     𝐝𝐢𝐝     𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲     𝐠𝐞𝐭     𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞          ?               (               god,     we     were          kids          together.     too     young     to     know     any     better,     us     against     the     world          ;          misguided     children,     believing     that     𝚆𝙰𝚁𝚂     could     be     fought     with     little     more     than     puerile     conviction.     oh,     how     the     world     turns     on     that     assumption     alone          …               )               𝗐𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗇     𝗈𝖿     𝗍𝗁𝖾     𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗋     takes          her          place     at     his     side,          +          there’s     a     significant     part     of     mournful     spirit     that     still     𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖒𝖘     at     the     mere     sight     of     her.               “               cara     mia,               ”               a     wistful     fondness     in     the     way     he     greets     carmen,     murmured     below     the     wheezy     exhale     of     an     air     conditioner     on     its     last     legs,               “               this     isn’t     where     we     dreamed     of     our     first     meeting.     didn’t     we     always     think     of     something     better          ?          something     that     didn’t     serve     fuckin’               …          jack     as     top     shelf          ?               ”

[eg0died]

Four times, David! That means something. Four times. Twenty-four hours a day I live with the aching possibility that you might call me to do something. Don't you know, David? Every time you sleep with someone... your body makes a promise whether you do or not!

VANILLA SKY (2001) dir. Cameron Crowe

[eg0died]

*                        this     grief,          unpredictable     tidal     wave     of     it     all          (          …          )          you     can’t     ever     hope     to     predict     𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕     𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜,     can’t     time     them     by     analog          /          hope     to     god     that     decimation     is     only     minor,     that     it     will     only     ever     take     the     parts     of     you     most     𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐃          /          it     hits     him     at     strangest     times,     the     ache     of     it.     bone     bruise,     he     thinks,     the     way     he’ll     carry     it     with     him,     stamped     on     softest     maw.          what’s     a     king,     but     a     little     boy,     lost          ?               “          they’ve     never     changed     it.     𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾     𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍,     𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍     𝖽𝖺𝗒,     𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾     𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇’               …               wallets,     yanked     out,     emptied.     rinse,     repeat.          ”          liquor     -     loose,     uneasy     in     what’s     arguably     his     own     palace     now,     val     steals     sideways     glance     at     viktor          ;          god,     i     was     so     scared     of     you     when     i     was     a     kid,     y’know     that          ?          they’re     the     things     that     go     unsaid.          terrified     me.          now,     i     don’t     know     what     to     do     with     that     fear.               “               no.               ”               gratitude     shines     something     𝖤𝖡𝖴𝖫𝖫𝖨𝖤𝖭𝖳     when     he     latches     onto     refilled     glass,     tucks     it     tight     to     his     chest          /          the     light     catches     on     signet     ring,          glimmers          with     all     of     its     horrible     promise.               “               i     haven’t               …               been     up     yet.     s’too               …               ”               too     soon          /          too     morbid          /          knows,          intimately,           that     something     beneath     his     ribs     will     crack,     𝗳𝗿𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗹𝗲,     when     he     does.          i     don’t     want     you     watching     when     i     fall     apart.

𝐕 ,　VALENTINO MORENO　...　　( @eg0died ) 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘯. 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘤𝘺𝘰𝘯 , 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘪𝘥𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵

            grief presents itself in ways that no two share the same resolve, manifested with external differences, but   implicit judgement  advances in a steal gait emerging from the shadows, settling in the adjacent right sided seat to lev's prodigy.  moreno blood.  there will never be a right time, to pluck valentino out of his anguish will always be too soon and yet, it can undoubtedly be claimed that a few days since lev's passing is, in fact, too soon. “ they did the same performance yesterday. ” but he too finds difficulty in a parting glance to him, the one now to be called godfather,  the one possessing his father's resemblance,  lev's likeness. as if all the years have washed away and viktor sits there harboring secrets already known to the man holding all the cards.  they will never be rid of him.  he is there in the dimly lit audience, in the vacant office watching from above, in the remnants of what is left after those who pledged loyalty have been bled dry. “ they'll do it again tomorrow. ” he espies the nearing empty glass of alcohol on the table and a second glance is offered with no comfort presented in the inevitable, the answer he knows. “ have you been upstairs? ” 

[eg0died]

*                        the     thing     about     this     city,          it’s     rotted     from     the     very     insides          ;          overeager     fingers     pry     into     its     guts          +          come     away     𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗦𝗛𝗘𝗗,     stained,     forever     changed          /          fuck     knows     it’s     a     good     way     to     make     your     money,     but     it          robs          you     of     something.     comfort     to     be     found,     then,     in     making     a     tentative     peace     with     𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚍     𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜,     𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚛     𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎               …               oh,     how     she’s     learned          !          life’s     work,     to     make     a     study     in     where     to     push     boundaries          /          where     she     can     take     a     sharp,     inquisitive     mind,     how     she     can     fashion     something     finely     -     honed     out     of     rough     -     hewn     𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵:          case     study,     currently     sprawled     across     pavement,     babbling     about     birds.          jesus.          “               do     you     think     of     being     an     𝗮𝗻𝗶𝗺𝗮𝗹     often,     then          ?               ”               cant     of     the     head,     keen     cut     to     the     way     russet     hues     narrow.     𝗂𝗇     𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍     𝗈𝖿     𝗍𝗁𝖾     𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌,          𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅               …               “               explain     to     me     how     that’s     going     to     work.               ”               all     five     foot     nothing,     balanced     in     teetering     louboutins     and     anchored     by     twist     of     sharp     features,     somewhere     between     amusement          +          a     sardonic     kind     of     concern,          is     this     kid     fuckin’     on     something          ?            —     -                    “               i     don’t     think     we’re     quite     the     same     size,     honey.               ”

location      :    anywhere   / open to all

— SUN-BLEACHED HAIR gleamed under flickering street lights, flushed fingers stained with crumbs of salt & vinegar chips; a desire or a punishment, he would never know. Pierced ears rang with the chants of a crowd that adored Orpheus — But cared little for the boy behind the glory; for after all, wasn't he only just a boy? Jagged as he may be, he felt nothing like the man he was to become. In a dog-eat-dog world, what does his lack of fangs mean if not naivety? — It certainly only rewarded him with a flat after a victory. Wanting to impress the audience around him, he darted off in his car deep into the night, unsure of where he was going. All roads lead to where we are meant to be — No, that's not how road works. Perhaps if he had been slower, he wouldn't be in this situation. He wonders, intently, if eating snails would help in his placement. The french seemed to be doing alright. Or perhaps it would make him faster. It was a theory to be tested. " If I could be any animal, 'ppose I would like to be a seagull, " his voice had no intended target, simply noticing the other around him and deciding to ask one of the questions that had been burning in his mind. Another chip was shoved into his mouth. " Tell ya' wha', perhaps I'd be a dog. Wha' 'bout ya? " His discarded pants laid on the floor next to him, wet from the weather and paid no mind as his eyes finally looked up. " Ei, listen — Can I borrow your pants? Mine are gone as a spell."

[eg0died]

*                        blessed     be     it,          night     off     from     a     pointedly     maudlin     routine     grown     wearisome     with     its     age          /          only     so     many     hungry     gazes     she     can     bear,     burnt     into     skin          tired          of     shameless     exposure.          (          keeps     the     bills     paid,     fine,     but     jesus               …               𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒     𝗃𝗈𝖻     𝗌𝗁𝖾’𝗌     𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋     𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗇,     not     like     she     can     turn     around          +          tend     fuckin’          bar.     )          devoid     of     its     glamour,     blue     moon     is     dualfold:          home,     the     first     place     you     run     from.          𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐩,     𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐲     𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞     𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐞     𝐛𝐚𝐫,     on     the     other     hand               …          oh,     the     anonymity          !          perfect     example,     she     supposes,     when     figure     tumbles     out     of     back     door     with     ridiculous     proposal.     noise     that     abounds     isn’t     what     one     would     expect               —               rough,     edged     in     dirt          /          𝙶𝚁𝙸𝙼𝙴          /          grit,     not     a     nectarous     titter     but     a     husky     chuckle     that     resonates          deep.          made     worse,     of     course,     by     the     𝗺𝗮𝗿𝗹𝗯𝗼𝗿𝗼     that     hangs     between     elegant     digits.          (          noticeably     devoid     of     usual     manicure,     sheen     worn     off          ;          there     are     bite     marks     down     to     that     vulnerable     quick,     red     -     raw,     aching.          )          “               isn’t     getting     punched     in     a     parking     lot     the          worst          cliche          ?               ”

𝗟𝗢𝘊𝘈𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕: outside the dive bar's parking lot, late night post fight. 𝗪𝗜𝘛𝘏: anyone it's an open starter baby !!

⠀#⠀        A    HELLHOUND    OFF    THE    leash,    just    for    tonight.    nothing    but    copper    scraps    and    freshly    earned    bruises    to    call    a    reward.    should    be    a    real    fuckin’    celebration    to    live    and    see    another    day,    can’t    help    the    anarchic    nihilism    that    bleaches    his    outlook,    (    childhood    sun  -  stained    bedroom    walls    and    the    notable    cross    shaped    𝐅𝐈𝐅𝐋𝐓𝐇    /    this    far    in    life,    intwined    anger    and    blood    inside    . . .    call    it    a    concrete    revelation:    you’re    fucked,    man.    )    doors    swing    wide    with    a    callous    push,    the    tips    of    his    nerves    fading    into    dreaded    obscurity.    terrible,    cheap    liquor    brings    the    best,    impulsive    ideas.    and    fuck,    he    needs    to    feel    alive    again    !    “    c’mon,    hit    me.    ”    spoken    as    a    sober    thought,    cacophony    of    limbs    jolt    with    drunken    brilliance,    “    what,    never    punched    a    guy    before    ?    shit,    tonight's    your    lucky    night,    isn’t    it    ?    so    t'fuck    you    waitin’    for.    hit    me.    ”  

[eg0died]

*                        they     stick     out,          fuckin’     dogs’     balls     amongst     the     filth          /          suited,     neat,     caricature     of          police     procedural.          she’s     even     got     a     𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐋𝐀     folder     sat,     face     down,     alongside     cappuccino     that     bears     signature     print,     revlon     stain     on     dirty     china.     there’s     𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐     𝚝𝚘     𝚋𝚎     𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍     for     meetings     in     public               —               element     of     surprise     when     she     slides     into     adjacent     booth,     unnoticed     until     she’s     greeted          +          promptly     ignored.          𝖳𝖸𝖯𝖨𝖢𝖠𝖫.          agents     these     days          …          sculpted     brow     arches,     practically     into     her     hairline               —               “               tsk,     tsk,     agent     tenant.     do     you     kiss     your     mother     with     that     mouth          ?               ”               rich     lacquer     taps     staccato     into     diner     table          (          oh,     she     notes     the     grease     that     collects     just     underneath          ;          doesn’t     wince,     to     immeasurable     credit          !          )               —               “               if     you     were     angling     for     a     𝗉𝖺𝗒     𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾,     this     is     the          wrong          way     to     go     about     it.               ”

𝗟𝗢𝘊𝘈𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕: local city diner, morning rush. 𝗪𝗜𝘛𝘏: anyone it's an open starter baby !!

⠀#⠀  THERE’S    AN    INDENT    OF    where    a    heart    should    be.    damp    and    apathetic    rhythm,    a    mere    echo    in    new    york’s    cavernous    soundscape.    escape    the    pouring    rain    and    cavalier    gaze    of    his    coworkers,    find    sanctuary    in    the    off  -  beat    depravity    of    city    diners.    something    quaint    in    all    it’s    common    man    pestilence,    faint    reminder    of    a    childhood    dead    in    the    way,    (    this    is    what    your    father    saved    you    from:    𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄    𝐎𝐅    𝐌𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐘.    )    pallid    gaze    watches    the    world    appear    and    erode,    note    the    tiniest    details    over    the    papers’    horizon,    just    unfortunately,    not    beside    him:    “    sorry,    whatever    you    said    must've been    the    next    bloody    second    word    of    christ    or    something    much    less    important.    does    it    look    like    i    was    listenin’    ?    ”    

[eg0died]

Havana Rose Liu in AMERICAN HORROR STORIES, 3x04 "Organ", directed by Petra Collins.

[eg0died]

*                         easy     enough,     to     lose     track          of     how     oft     sacred     position     is     taken          ;          pews     bear     peculiar     patina     now,     𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀     𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁     𝗍𝗁𝖾     𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒     𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽     𝗂𝗇     𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖾     -     𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇          !          (          only     tradition     he     can     fuck     with,     it     is          …          sunday     service,     knees     bear     the     constant     stain     of     it:          forgive     me,     father.     i     spit     my     confessions     at     your     feet,     preening     cat     with     still     -     twitching     KILL     in     dripped     -     red     maw,     no     𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐥     𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲     can     save     me     now.          )          helena     exists     in     blissful     tandem     with     it     all,          partner     in     crime          in     so     many     ways          …          new     ones     born     of     devastating     circumstances,     he     supposes.          (          speaking     of:          sunglasses     in     church          ?          really          ?          calvin     kleins     stay          firmly          on,     a     careful     shade     to     hide     slashes     of     indigo     that     give     away     a     sleepless     night     or     six.          )          swift     kiss     brushed     against     the     planes     of     their     cheekbone     before     he     plucks     lit     cigarette     from     their     grip,     inhales     deeply     enough     that     there’s     an     accompanying     noise.          guttural.               “               and     father     paul     keeps     tellin’     you     it’s     rude     to     litter     in     the     𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎     𝚘𝚏     𝚝𝚑𝚎     𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚍.               ”               artless     flick     of     ashes     onto     floor,     case     in     point          !          it’s     the     faintest     hint     of     a     grin     that     curls     along     the     𝖇𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖓     ridge     of     his     mouth,     but     fuck,     it’s     something.               “          c’mon     then,     honey.     you     got     the     guts,     take     ‘em.               ”

𝗟𝗢𝘊𝘈𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕: by the pews of st thomas' church, evening. 𝗪𝗜𝘛𝘏: anyone it's an open starter baby !!

⠀#⠀  ACHING    FOR    GUIDANCE,    prayers    are    few    and    far    between.    how    many    nights    since    last    confession    ?    rosary    𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃    on    skin    and    brush    off   the ashes    of    white    powder    off    leather  -  bound    bible,    (    the    pious    question    a    mere    set    up    to    a    macabre    joke:    there    simply    ain’t    enough    graves    to    count    ‘em    all,    father.    )    cigarette    dangles    between    closed    lips    and    brought    to    life    by    the    flame    of    a    lit    candle,    plucked    from    operatic    display.    legs    meticulously    cross    over,    sat    by    the    edge    of    front    row    pew,    (    low    chuckle    reverberates    as    instincts    cry    beneath    war  -  torn    skin.    some    doomed    kismet    this    is    !    )    “    y’know,    it’s    rude    to    stare.    ”    raven    gaze    still    spired    on    the    divine    scene    in    front,    smoke    unfurls    in    tandem    with    their    lazy    smile,    “    especially    in    the    house    of    the    lord,    no    less.    could    take    your    eyes  . . .   𝐀𝐒    𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄.    ”

[eg0died]

𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇     𝗍𝗁𝖾               iron               𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙     𝖋𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖘     𝘁𝗵𝗲          𝚛𝚘𝚝.

⁽          ˑˑˑ          ⁾          ᵒᵗʰᵉʳʷᶤˢᵉ     ᶜᵒᵐᶤᶰᵍ     ᵗᵒ     ʸᵒᵘ     ᵃˢ˒             @𝚎𝚐𝟶𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚍 .ᐟ            brought     to     by     claire          (          twenty4,     she/they          )          +          dependent     on     pulptv.     gleefully     exploring     the     following     themes:          familial     curses,     affectionate.     family,     both     affectionate          +          derogatory.          𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎     𝚒𝚜     𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚢,     𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢     𝚒𝚏     𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍     𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎     𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚌𝚑!          ;          girlhood     as     something     to     be     gnawed     at,     turned     sharpened          +          weapon     in     spun     -     sugar     fingers          ...          nine     inch     nail's     closer,     pulsing     in     the     background.     𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀     𝗌𝗂𝗀𝗇          ?

dont look at this. char directory tba when im not dead exhausted.