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Livre de la Vigne nostre Seigneur; France, 15th century; Bodleian Library, MS. Douce 134, f. 49v

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theres just a lil sumn sumn about David Tennants gender

i wanna like become ingest drink whtvr tf hes on /hj

(sorry not sorry for the photo dump)

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by Kristina Paukshtite

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Learning to be less reactive is literally saving my life. I’m finally understanding that processing things is not the same as immediately forming a response to them. I can process without feeling pressed to formulate a reaction to what someone said or did or a situation that displeases me. Not that a quick head on your shoulders is necessarily a bad thing, but 9/10 taking a minute to just process could save you so much trouble

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Forms in Nature by Hilden Diaz is a light sculpture that casts shadows resembling tree branches on the surrounding walls.

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TSH spoilers:

I feel like we as a fandom do not talk about Henry’s symbolism in TSH enough. Like, that dude is the literal embodiment of death, and I just think it’s so damn cool. I mean, his whole obsession with language and literature stemmed from the fact that he almost died in a car accident. And then every death we see in the book (the farmer’s, Bunny’s, and his very own) is directly at his hands. The others were accomplices, sure, but Henry’s the one who takes action every time. And in Francis’s failed suicide and Richard’s near death in the epilogue, they both see Henry, not Bunny or Charles or what have you.

Henry is not only obsessed with death, he IS death. He’s the reaper who’s friends toy with their mortality all the time through drugs and booze. The reason they all admire him is not only because of his size and stature and brilliance; it’s because he’s dangerous. If beauty is indeed terror, than he’s the most beautiful of them all. They all have the life preservation skills of a fly, so of course they love Henry. And of course his actions constantly bring them closer to danger and death.

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Ph. Stella Morais

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(by Julien Riedel)

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i need to put a slice of moon in my mouth like a cold fruit

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Józef Szermentowski (1833-1876), Morning Star, 1874

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