kaurwreck

[kaurwreck]

Art by: galactixy_illustrations on Instagram

[kaurwreck]

not to beat a dead snake or anything but. literacy is a faustian bargain.

is rise against aware that they wrote and performed the good left undone about pontius pilate and yeshua. is anyone going to tell them.

[kaurwreck]

they can't keep getting away with this, but it's like. about Russian authors choosing to write their own peace after and while their worlds attempted to crush the marrow from their bones.

[kaurwreck]

I just have to live the rest of my life having read that and also, like. go to work.

is rise against aware that they wrote and performed the good left undone about pontius pilate and yeshua. is anyone going to tell them.

[kaurwreck]

All because of you / I haven't slept in so long / When I do I dream of drowning in the ocean / Longing for the shore where I can lay my head down / I'll follow your voice / All you have to do is shout it out

is rise against aware that they wrote and performed the good left undone about pontius pilate and yeshua. is anyone going to tell them.

[kaurwreck]

is rise against aware that they wrote and performed the good left undone about pontius pilate and yeshua. is anyone going to tell them.

[kaurwreck]

can I take a hit of that moonlight. i just need—would like—the lightest of hits. of what pontius pilate is imbibing. a sliver of moonbeam.

What if the anxiety that persists in frenzying us over nothing was right to do so because all it takes is nothing for those who can to strip you of your personhood, truth, values, belongings, body, wholeness, and security; and what if those who could did so with such frequency and detachment and emotional theater that even what cant be taken, like love and our innate drive towards self preservation, is disfigured by blight that rots not only us but spits intangible spores that coat everyone and everything we touch. and that just, like, permeated our reality so thoroughly that neither sleep nor insanity spare us the visceral sensations of our spiritual tissue death and the devil himself can only watch with discontented distaste from an armchair while his retinue attempts to soothe his impotence with parlor illusions that torment only to the extent that they expose the truth of the hell we, by which I mean Russians and Muscovites, are perpetrating all on our own.

anyway, i'm going to finish the master and margarita and its critical companion and then. no more soviet lit. for a little while. we're retreating back under gogol's undercoat after this one.

[kaurwreck]

I'm so mad that I've finally been driven to read Faust. Jun Mochizuki and Mikhail Bulgakov aren't cute for this.

[kaurwreck]

I did a drawing of some random, totally normal high school girls.;)

[kaurwreck]

you called my favorite media… slop? like… for a pig? is that what you think i am? *gets on all fours* is this what i am to you? *snorts* you think i’m a pig? *snorts* *starts sniffing the ground* you think this is funny? huh? *starts squealing* WEEE WEEE WEEEEEEE… you like this? huh? huh? WEEEEEEEEEE *gets up* whatever. just forget it. i don’t care anymore.

[kaurwreck]

biblically accurate angel. according to the gothic lolita bible

[kaurwreck]

Worlds Apart — the Harpy and the Mermaid

[kaurwreck]

What if the anxiety that persists in frenzying us over nothing was right to do so because all it takes is nothing for those who can to strip you of your personhood, truth, values, belongings, body, wholeness, and security; and what if those who could did so with such frequency and detachment and emotional theater that even what cant be taken, like love and our innate drive towards self preservation, is disfigured by blight that rots not only us but spits intangible spores that coat everyone and everything we touch. and that just, like, permeated our reality so thoroughly that neither sleep nor insanity spare us the visceral sensations of our spiritual tissue death and the devil himself can only watch with discontented distaste from an armchair while his retinue attempts to soothe his impotence with parlor illusions that torment only to the extent that they expose the truth of the hell we, by which I mean Russians and Muscovites, are perpetrating all on our own.

anyway, i'm going to finish the master and margarita and its critical companion and then. no more soviet lit. for a little while. we're retreating back under gogol's undercoat after this one.

[kaurwreck]

i can’t stand “it’s not that deep” attitudes like even if it really really isn’t that deep just PLAY WITH ME. just fucking PLAY. have a meaningless but deep analytical conversation with me. just like think about shit for fun. does anyone else like to think about stuff for fun. it’s so lonely

[kaurwreck]

nvm I'm in it now

I'm struggling to latch onto the satire in The Master and Margarita the way I might have in high school, when I was reading Catch-22 and Slaughterhouse-Five. I miss Dostoevsky; I want Tolstoy. I'm still too early in The Master and Margarita to know with certainty (and I still have its critical companion to read), but I may retreat back into the 19th century once I finish it.

[kaurwreck]

[staggering to my feet and wiping a single perfect drip of blood from my mouth] i have to get back on my bullshit. no matter the cost

[kaurwreck]

no bsd couple has more gender swag than tachigin i fear happy pride month to them