#and the quote about metaphors and poetry

[freshpickle]

i got absolutely ravaged by mosquitoes, and despite knowing better i have scratched all the bites into open wounds which has made the pain worse, last longer, and will leave a scar, and honestly, the metaphor writes itself

[secretsiwhispertothemoon]

[wooftphr]

[earlgaylatte]

Real Estate-

i'm looking for a house. low crime area,

affordable rent, no

lingering smell of weed or suicide.

two bedrooms.

attached to a bus line, prefferably-

i'm trying to find an answer to the lingering

dread in every 'for sale' sign littering

front lawns like garden gnomes.

i spend all my free time drifting from street

to street like a ghost, like

this isn't a pipe dream, and finally i can

settle down long enough for the

trembling in my shoulders to stop.

hope sparks up from unread emails but it

won't last-

any longer than a game of hopstoch

in the neighbourhood named solitude

i built up in my mind.

there's a road from your heart to mine, the

highway i built in our chests. let's go for

a midnight drive. this time

i won't spend the entire car ride weeping

over every crushed dog on the sidewalk,

collars bearing names like

"home ownership" or "marriage."

i'm trying to build an idylic house for us, i'm

trying,

but damn these roadblocks and potholes.

home insurrance won't kick in for another

three months. brick and mortar wraps

around us like a wet blanket. i'm looking for

a house with rooms close enough that i can

feel your sobs like

breath on my neck

through the echoing walls.

and if i find us a home, don't love it or

it won't last.

i know this because my stepdad never says

"i love you,"

but he does say

"if i didn't push you this hard,

you'd be stuck here until you died."

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

impermanence

"When you contemplate impermanence genuinely, the ordinary selfish mind does not arise, and you do not seek fame or fortune because you realize that nothing prevents the swift flow of time. You must practice the Way as though you were trying to keep your head from being consumed by fire.... If you hear the flattering call of the god Kimnara or the kalavinka bird, regard them as merely the breeze blowing in your ears. Even though you see the beautiful face of Mao-ch'ing or Hsi-shih, consider that they are the morning dew obstructing your vision." -Dogen

[psyche-tips-the-candle]

Every piece of me is yours, darling

There's no reason for surprise

I always have been, always will be

As sure as the sun will rise

[gabrielora]

When you try to look up to something and you realize you were looking down at hell the whole time, the brightness of the flames still burn blotches in your eyes even after you’ve looked away.

[wqnwoos]

the first time you cry in front of vernon, it’s because of an orange.

you’ve always loved oranges. not just because of the taste, or the flavour, but because of everything they can mean.

oranges are built for sharing. neat little segments, ready to be peeled apart and given away; they’re like muses. metaphors. i love you, i’ll peel you an orange, do you want half? — people write poetry about it. so much meaning within the simplicity of sharing.

it happens when you’re over at vernon’s place, the two of you sitting together on the floor of the kitchen. backs against the wooden cabinets, side-by-side, a comfortable silence settled in the air. late afternoon sun pours in through the window, bathing both of you in honey-gold light, softening the edges of vernon’s features whenever you look over at him.

he’s fixated on peeling that orange, the one he produced out of nowhere. you’ve never seen anyone tear the skin so carefully, but then, as you’ve come to notice, vernon handles everything carefully. even moments later, tearing the segments apart, he does it with an unusual, endearing gentleness. there’s no violent gush of juice as he splits it in half, no squashed pieces.

vernon gives you half, and you think you short-circuit a little.

(how dare you love me in the way i long to be loved?)

there’s a slightest stickiness on his fingers when they brush against yours. the sunlight is warm and heavy on your back. you think you might love him soon.

“everything okay?” he asks, soft, casting you a slightly concerned glance — likely because of the intensity with which you’re gazing at your orange half, sat perfectly round and ripe in your palm.

“yeah,” you say thickly, forcing back the tears that blur your eyes, mustering a watery smile. “everything’s perfect.”

an / things are literally madness rn. but that won’t stop me from posting vernon fluff!

ALSO — “how dare you love me in the way i long to be loved?” is a quote from here!!

perm taglist: @n4mj00nvq @eoieopda @som1ig @glowunderthemoon @wondering-out-loud @graybaeismytae @hannyoontify @sahazzy @dokyeomin @icyminghao @smilehui @nicholasluvbot @lvlystars @immabecreepin @hanniehaee @kokoiinuts @astrozuya @doublasting @yepimthatonequirkyteenager @qaramu @weird-bookworm @phenomenalgirl9 @lightnjng @strnsvt

[kitchen-light]

The responsibility of the poet? My medical mentor, a Jewish man from Waco, Texas, used to say that a plethora of ongoing research on a particular medical subject indicates that we still don’t know enough about that subject. And that’s how I feel about the responsibility of the poet. We keep talking about it because it is relentlessly mutable, pluripotent. We are never satisfied with our answers. I often think that the responsibility of the poet is to strive to become the memory that people may possess in the future about what it means to be human: an ever-changing constant. In poetry, the range of metaphors and topics is limited, predictable, but the styles are innumerable. Think how we read poetry from centuries ago and are no longer bothered by its outdated diction. All that remains of old poetry is the music of what it means to be human. And perhaps that’s all we want from poetry. A language of life. I like this quote by J. M. Coetzee: “The masters of information have forgotten about poetry, where words may have a meaning quite different from what the lexicon says, where the metaphoric spark is always one jump ahead of the decoding function, where another, unforeseen reading is always possible.”

Fady Joudah, from his interview with Aria Aber: "Fady Joudah | The poet on how the war in Gaza changed his work", published in The Yale Review, February 28, 2024

[iwtvfanevents]

St. Louis 2024 —an LDPDL fan event

This October, we are celebrating our titular vampire's 147th birthday with a month-long creative challenge. This is the second edition of this event, and you can see the fan creations shared last year in the tag, here ►

How does this event work?

Louis's birthday is October 4th, so we have four broad prompts, and ten prompt quotes. Prompts have no assigned date, and they are meant to be interpreted freely. 

Prompts

Love / Family 

Memory / Art

Gender / Sexuality

Vampirism / Power

Quotes

"For the first time in my life, I was seen."

"I had powers now, and decades of rage to process…"

"Allow me my odyssey."

"The absence of metaphor is striking."

"Are we the sum of our worst moments?"

"She called me an angel."

"But the suit changes nothing."

"My rage had risen, followed closely behind by my madness."

"I’m companion enough for myself now." 

"I didn't know it was a gift."

Louis's character exists in relation with others —his human family, his vampire family, his love interests, his interviewer, his employees— and your contribution can be about any and all of those relationships, or about Louis alone.

POV isn't a given either: you could write about Louis from another character's perspective but, if it's focused on Louis, then it's still in the spirit of this event.

And, if you end up creating something that doesn't quite respond to any prompt, you're still participating, as long as your creation is about Jacob Anderson's Louis de Pointe du Lac.

Some ways in which you can participate include:

fanfiction,

fanart,

fanmixes,

moodboards,

gifsets,

photomanips,

graphics,

video edits and AMVs,

meta and analysis in written, audio or video form,

poetry,

music,

headcanons,

fanworks and meta recommendations...

...and anything else you can think of!

Please take a look at our participation guidelines, and don't forget to tag your posts with #IWTVfanevents or tag @iwtvfanevents so we can share them on the blog. You can also add them to the collection on AO3: Happy birthday LDPDL!

If you’re on Twitter, we’re over there too!

And, as always, we encourage you to use the #vampterview tag for your posts about the show. Learn more about this fandom tag here ►

[g0dr0t]

richard siken being active on twitter and the barrage of “i thought you were from the 1800s!” “i thought you were long dead!” “i thought you were a romantic poet!” hes gotten from people who claim to enjoy his work is making me think a lot about how many people consume poetry these days. poems are cut down to one or two snappy quotes to be reposted ad infinitum to pinterest and recontextualized in peoples web weavings all the time. do people never go back to the source? do people not look at the quote they enjoy, find the title, and read the full poem? because if you have read nearly anything by siken you will know he is a modern poet. its glaringly obvious in the language he uses, his imagery and metaphors, the tone. how are we still messing this up

[bookmarksandbonfires]

All of this talk about @taylorswift's new album is really just proving to me that people have no idea what poetry is??? Like every time I see a post online someone's put in the comments "wow how poetic touch me while your boys play grand theft auto" or "that metaphor is so obvious how can you say her lyrics are poetry" or whatever and like I get it. The Poetry you had to read in high school felt Incomprehensible and you were Bad At Analyzing It. I felt that way too, and I got a degree in literature.

But "Incomprehensible" is not in the definition of poetry. It doesn't need to be endlessly complex with allusions and metaphors you'll never be able to unravel. The Google definition (from the Oxford dictionary) is:

All poetry has to do is be words that express meaning and have rhythm. (That's basically all songs.) There's nothing in the definition about how you should be unable to parse all the meanings behind it. If you hear a collection of words that make you feel something, that's poetry. It just is.

Or, to quote Wordsworth, poetry is "the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings," which he believed should be written in plain language, and since there's a heavy Gothic/Romantic strain in Tortured Poets Department, I think it's reasonable we should default to a definition from that school of thought.

Poetry does not have to be incomprehensible to be meaningful. You can feel something because of the specific words in their specific arrangements, or the literary devices utilized, or even just the rhythm in which they are spoken. It doesn't have to have you getting out a dictionary or diagramming the sentences or spending hours trying to guess what the author really means. It can just make you feel.

I don't know if Taylor Swift is the greatest poet of our generation or whatever. But to say her songs aren't poetry because you think you understand them is belittling and reducing poetry to something it never has been.

[canmom]

reading Herbert Mason's translation of the Epic of Gilgamesh, as you do!

I went with Mason's translation after I saw it quoted here and there and seemed pretty solidly written - but it isn't precisely right to call it a translation, more a retelling of the story as Mason understands it. so it's not a line by line translation, and some major parts of it are presumably interpolations or paraphrases.

i knew the broad outline of the story but it's fascinating to put it in context, and discover parts of the story i hadn't heard about. for example, i didn't realise the concept of droit du seigneur was part of this story - I'd thought that was basically a goofy myth about the medieval period, but here in the oldest surviving written story, it's just a thing the mythological king Gilgamesh does. though the exact translation seems a little contentious - Mason writes:

As king, Gilgamesh was a tyrant to his people.

He demanded, from an old birthright,

The privilege of sleeping with their brides

Before the husbands were permitted

But Wikipedia quotes a different translation by Stephen Mitchell which says:

He is king, he does whatever he wants... takes the girl from her mother and uses her, the warrior's daughter, the young man's bride.

The general thrust is similar in both cases, but the details of the custom are different. I don't have Mitchell's translation so I can't find how he describes the moment Enkidu arrives to interfere with Gilgamesh doing one of these kingly rapes (like let's not beat around the bush here, it's a different social context and whatever but you can't possibly say no to the demigod king).

Moving on...

Viewed with modern eyes, the transition between the first chapter and the second is kind of abrupt. We've got this great establishing story for Gilgamesh and Enkidu having a rather homoerotic fight and becoming best bros, but then we abruptly skip forward to Gilgamesh declaring that they're going to go fight a monster called Humbaba, and Enkidu is all like, no, that guy is way too high level, you'll die! Modern writing advice would hold that you'd want to spend some time building up Gilgamesh and Enkidu's relationship 'on screen' here, and perhaps foreshadow the existence of Humbaba a bit sooner to build up the threat a bit - but then I'm not carving this into stone tablets, I can afford to be a little bit roundabout, and who knows what's been lost? (scholars of the Epic probably have some idea lol)

The word used for Gilgamesh and Enkidu's relationship is 'friend'. This feels like it's probably a bit of a lossy translation to me - would lover/boyfriend be projecting too much? I obviously don't know the nuances of Sumerian that well, so maybe this is the best available word, but their relationship has a lot of physicality and a lot of affection.

The woman who goes to Enkidu in the wild and has a bunch of sex until he becomes civilised is described here as a 'prostitute'. My understanding was that she belongs to a religious role here, harimtu, that's usually translated as 'sacred prostitution' but apparently this identity is contested, and also she has a name, Shamhat? I don't know why Mason doesn't use her name. Shamhat has a pretty big role in changing Enkidu and convincing him to come meet Gilgamesh, but her own motivation isn't really explored.

Still, I don't want to come off as only complaining. Whether they originate in the Epic or with Mason, I'm enjoying a lot of the poetic turns of phrase in this version - the style is just the right level of minimal - simple appropriate words, but effective for that. Mason writes in verse, but doesn't rhyme - I'm not really familiar enough with meter to say more than that. There are a lot of fairly short, declarative sentences, mixed up with an occasional much longer metaphor across multiple lines. I think you could fairly easily delete the line breaks and just have prose, but having them makes it flow in an interesting way, like waves? Poetry is not my bailiwick so I'm probably describing some fairly basic facets of the medium, but it's interesting to observe.

I'll add more when I've read a bit more, I'll be in this train a while...

[sweetbbyshion]

Eros' song

-> Shinichiro Sano x Reader (no pronouns or descriptions)

characters: Shinichiro Sano

genre: fluff

summary: you write a poem as a way to confess to your best friend

warnings: childhood friends to lovers, i wrote the poem so please don't be too mean or i'll cry, also DON'T STEAL THE POEM FOR THE LOVE OF GOD it will be my last reason, the reader is into books, first quote is from Kafka's Letters to Milena and the second is Edgar Allan Poe's Annabel Lee

network: @eveningatthemoviesnetwork

Shinichiro has been your best friend since your first memory surfaced. From the moment you could process thoughts and emotions, the man has been close to you. Truly, it was a matter of time until one of you fell in love and you happened to be the (un)lucky one.

You were no older than thirteen when the infamous incident happened. Shinichiro (also thirteen and with a really, really ugly hairstyle) looked at you and gave you a big toothy smile, like he always does whenever a cool bike passes by you. Suddenly, flowers exploded behind him, angels sang, the sun shone brighter than it had all day and you found yourself almost squinting and on the verge of throwing up because of the butterflies in your stomach. Metaphorically, obviously.

It was a shame, really. You nearly yelled at the universe for not giving this evil curse to Shinichiro instead but, apparently, the entities above also doomed Shinichiro to a life of rejection. So, you suffered because your best friend didn’t look at you and the man suffered because no girl wanted him.

At thirteen you turned into poetry and all kinds of literature, finding pieces that you related to a bit too much and, eventually, writing things yourself. Shinichiro didn’t understand most of the stuff you read, always questioning what words meant and what was so special about those poems that had you tear up so often. You shared that part of your life with him as well, showing the poems, drabbles, verses you came up with that were messily written in your journal. Fortunately for you and your weak heart, Shinichiro didn’t really understand that most of the things you wrote were about him.

It stayed that way until you were twenty three. You were less naive, more in tune with the feelings that made you want to throw up years ago and definitely in love with your best friend (who kept getting rejected even after changing the horrible hairstyle; the Gods really hated you both). Shinichiro had his own bike shop, a gang that supported him through everything and you. He still happily reads whatever you wrote in your journal and he still doesn't understand half of the stuff you have there but the honest praise and support makes your heartbeat a little bit faster. Shinichiro is there when you publish your very own poetry book, his name deservedly on the first page. To Shinichiro, who was always there for me. As Franz Kafka said “In a way, you are poetry material; You are full of cloudy subtleties I am willing to spend a lifetime figuring out.”

So, maybe, you were a bit too obvious with the whole ‘I love you’ deal but Shinichiro didn't seem to understand all the hints you dropped. Everyone around you seemed to find out about your little secret and some of his friends even went out of their way to let you know he felt the same but you weren't so sure.

“What you writing over there?” the smooth voice of Shinichiro pulls you back to reality, the noise in the shop coming back in an instant. It was almost dinner time and you came into the shop hoping to have a meal with your best friend before going home. Deciding to entertain yourself, you pulled out your notebook and a pen from your bag and wrote some ideas that popped in your head as you stared with heart eyes to the object of your affection.

“Nothing important.” A lie. The words that stared back at you formed, yet again, another finished love poem that you dreamed of showing to Shinichiro in hopes that he would read it and return your feelings. Shinichiro knew you were lying. Somehow he always knew. You refuse to return eye contact when he grabs your pen and doodles mindlessly next to the verses, a routine he acquired when you whined about the pages of your journal being too boring with just words in it. You look at his hands gently drawing small hearts (Shinichiro couldn't draw a heart even if it was to save his family but you grew to love the blob shapes) and a random dog with stars surrounding it.

“Can I read it?” You meet his eyes, tender and sweet, which were already looking at you. Your heart flips, turns and does cartwheels when Shinichiro gives you that toothy smile that makes him close his eyes and you can only let out a small “Sure.” before closing your mouth so you don't accidentally confess.

My soul holds a secret that my pen

Now wishes to share.

In ink-stained lines, my feelings find a home:

Untold to anyone but the Gods from above,

As I convoke Eros to help me compose a piece

That will reach your heart.

But do I dare?

Do I dare trouble the deities with a greedy tone

When I can’t gather the courage

To whisper confessions when we’re alone;

The only witness to my love

Being the moon shining high up

And the paper getting stained with passion.

So sure of my affection yet,

I hesitate.

Do you dare reciprocate these heavy feelings

That only keep me awake at night or

Am I merely a friend that consoles your ego

When things fall apart?

But it’s okay,

For I have accepted the possibility

The harsh, unwanted probability

That I’m doomed to an existence of unrequited love

And a lifeless life

Without the muse who inspires me

To write the most loveful poems and

The most sorrowful verses.

You nervously glance at Shinichiro while he is reading, noticing how his eyes squint and his nose scrunches from time to time (he does it when he doesn't understand something that is written). You pay close attention to his face, the poet in you wishing to remember Shinichiro until your last day if the worst was to happen. A part of you hopes the man will finally understand all of the things you wished to say but weren’t strong enough to. You pray that your poem reaches his heart and soul, that he sees you not only as a longtime friend but a life partner. “Wow.” He sighs, lifting his eyes from the paper to settle on you again. “I’ll never get tired of saying you’re really good.” Shinichiro stands back at his full height, murmuring about back pain after leaning down for so long. You look up at the man who has your world spinning around him, waiting to see if he says something more. He doesn't.

“Is that all?” You ask, playing with the bracelet on your wrist (a gift from Shinichiro when you turned 18). He looks at you confused. His eyes scan the paper again, rereading the verses to figure out if he missed anything. He still looks lost so you grab the pen and, in a moment of courage, you write a few words at the bottom of the poem. For Shinichiro, who I “loved with a love that was more than love”. The handwriting is shaky, giving away the anxiety exuding out of you. Shinichiro reads the additional words, then stops, then looks at you. You get up, not being able to have his body towering you that way. He is standing next to you and, for the first time, you’re not sure about the emotions revealed by his eyes. You wonder if you made a mistake confessing out of nowhere, in his shop, while his siblings and friends are hanging out and the last customers exit. You should have eased your way into the subject but what’s done is done and all you have left is to wait.

“I know I’m not the smartest person…” Shinichiro’s eyes are on you, reading your every move. “But does this mean what I think it means?” You nod, not trusting your voice. His eyes widen and, in a sudden movement, Shinichiro is even closer to you. His hands are on each side of your face, forcing you to look at him. “You wrote a poem for me. A love poem.” You nod again, your movements a bit restricted by the big hands holding your face in place. “I’m going to kiss you.”

Shinichiro gives you five seconds to step back before his lips are crashing against yours. You don't think any poem, book, word could describe what you felt the moment your lips met. It’s fast and a bit clumsy but you couldn't be more happy this happened, unable to control the smile when Shinichiro stops the kiss to look at you. You want to giggle like a young teenager when Shinichiro gives you that smile you love more than anything. “Does this mean you feel the same?”

“Yeah. Have for a while. Couldn't stand the thought of getting rejected by you though.” His thumb caresses your cheek and you find yourself leaning to the touch.

“I would never reject you.” You murmur, embarrassed at such revelation. “You know there’s a quote from Emily Brontë-”

“Tell me about her in a bit.” Shinichiro interrupts you. “I want to kiss you again.”

The next time you write a poem isn't about Shinichiro, your best friend. Instead, you dumped all of the new (reciprocated) feelings about Shinichiro, your boyfriend, and the experiences you get from living with him by your side. Most of your poems were and will probably always be about Shinichiro Sano, no matter the status he holds in your life. You get to love your muse and your boyfriend gets a lifetime supply of romantic poetry dedicated to him (as well as quotes that fit each situation).

[youremyheaven]

As a woman, am I not capable of being a genius? I read women are the Moon, thus vessels for men and have no light of their own. Women need to devote to a man who is the Sun and shine his light. That men as Solar are the only ones capable of being originators of ideas or progress or Truth (as they say) and thats how its intended to be, the woman/women since the sun cannot be restricted to one woman unless he desires to be should accept. Is it true or misogyny disguised as spirituality?

"Women are said to be the highest of vessels both physically and spiritually. We are the Moon which receives the light from the Sun and consequently reflects his light, his genius, all that he is. The Moon doesn’t shine on her own, but only in his light. His light is all over her body. She is the vessel that receives and is filled, thereafter “cooks” and gives birth to his energy, both in a physically literal way as a child or in an energetic sense, like a woman automatically subconsciously becomes the student of her chosen consort." - Taralina Nau (The Importance of Maintaining Female Sexual Purity on Medium)

I read the whole article (what you put in quotes) and I don't find it particularly misogynistic. I think men and women have a different relationship with sex. Women are by nature more inwardly drawn and emotional.

Men can bang 200 faceless women and maybe they'll feel disgusted afterwards but they'll more or less be okay. It's just not in their nature to absorb as such??

But a woman can't walk away from such an experience without being brutally affected by it.

But that said what you mentioned in the first part of your question is interesting.

A lot of the "divine feminine" content online reeks of misogyny and this includes Claire Nakti

But I did not interpret the specific Moon- Sun metaphor to mean that women can't be brilliant.

Moon has no light and women are inherently Lunar but there is strength and power in being receptive and reflecting light. The Sun can shine it's light but that's about it. The Moon receives AND reflects it. Imagine thinking that's not brilliant???

If you're entirely in darkness and all other stars around you are also dark, do you know how incredible you have to be to absorb and reflect light??? It's not a "lack", it's a quality and strength that's part of the Moon's unique nature. It does not create but reflects.

This is why the planet of creativity, Venus, is Yin. Because creation does not take place in "lack" or "absence". You can't make something out of nothing. In order to make anything, you have to draw from your influences.

Same goes for Moon. Light can't be created out of nothing. Only the Sun can do it. Does it make all other planets stupid??? Every planet has its own qualities 😩

The biological nature of a woman is to receive, alchemize and create.

We only need a sperm to make a whole ass baby inside us. Is that not mind blowing??? A human being with personality, likes, dislikes, talents etc is made within us???

But we do need that sperm. We can do 95% by ourselves but the other 5% we need from a man.

And that's fine??? It's completely alright?? It does not show weakness or inability?? Like am I also supposed to create the sperm on my own?? Lmao??

We were not put on this earth to be completely independent. Life would be disharmonious that way.

Now you may ask, what about men?

Men are Solar. The Sun creates its own light, it shines by itself. But it's life lacks purpose all alone.

Men don't do anything within their bodies, they're not wired that way. They don't have an interior life. That DOES NOT MEAN they're self sufficient or completely independent. They're inherently missing the feminine principle, the way the woman misses the sperm (the masculine principle lmao)

They seek it in art, poetry, beauty, gambling, porn, music, cinema, all forms of creativity because that's the Yin spirit. Even if a man avoids women and dies a virgin, he's still seeking the Yin in other ways. Why are women the biggest distraction for a man??? Because his presumed sufficiency feels hollow and empty and he needs to discharge himself energetically onto someone else.

Why are there so many films about rich, handsome, successful men who live lonely lives??? Because without the Yin, sufficiency feels limiting. Yin energy is innately spiritual and awakens them to both fun, pleasure etc but also subconsciously connects them to spirit and makes them feel alive. A man who has never been in love vs one who has are two different breeds.

[nwodwols]

I keep seeing Mads quoted saying that if they don’t get to film s4 of Hannibal within the next couple years, they’d have to just say goodbye to it forever. I haven’t seen the interview(s?) where he says this. Am I wrong in assuming this is an age thing? Obviously it’s not because the interest would suddenly dissipate. I cannot overstate my desire to see an older Hannibal and Will. Not just for the obvious reason (being my unfettered attraction for watching people age, this post alone sent me), but for the tenderness of it.

Mads is 58 so he’ll be pushing 60 in two years. I’m sure he has his reasons. Maybe he doesn’t think he could play the kitchen counter jumping, knife wielding, beast after a certain age, but there’s an intimacy to Hannibal’s killings. Hannibal has almost a decade on Will if I’m understanding things right. Will may be a fishermen, but the man craves the hunt. I imagine Will caring for Hannibal as the ache sets into his bones and he begins to slow down. Just thinking about Hannibal mentioning a bothersome but nevertheless innocent person who happened to cross his path on his weekly errands into the city. Thinking about Will’s little knowing smirk across the dinner table when he hears Hannibal’s rather minor annoyance. His little offhanded remark about rudeness. Thinking about how Will would happily retrieve them for him, alive of course, so Hannibal could continue his intimate dissection. How Will’s entire demeanor would shift by the time he got back home and how Hannibal would ease him back out of that headspace he always had trouble navigating. Will would help Hannibal in the kitchen. Help him with any lifting at the start and take care of his aching hands after a thorough dinner prep. Hannibal would help Will in his own damn mind palace. Ease him through each room he’s been granted admittance to. He’s pretty much in them all at this point. Hannibal would worry about Will’s appetite should anything happen to him; Will would absorb the longing as he studied the white in Hannibal’s hair and the tightness in his joints. They would both remain stubbornly neutral about their mortality, always keeping the conversation in metaphor and poetry. But my god it would be staring them in the face and it would be beautiful.

Not to disagree with Mads at all, for whatever his reasoning is - Maybe it’s just pure fuckery and he knows the s4 timeline (or truly knows it won’t happen and it’s trying to give it finality). Maybe somethings get lost in translation, so to speak. Or maybe it is just his own desire for letting things go and giving himself a proper boundary to do so. But if it’s an age thing, I just couldn’t think of a more beautiful (twisted, complicated, obscene, classic) character to give the dignity of aging gracefully onscreen to. And Mads is a helluva person suit to portray it.