#thing I wrote

[djregular]

My friend @knitmeapony encouraged me so praise/blame them.

[theanticool]

Ring of Fire: Undisputed Heavyweight Championship

Even I can't deny there is no prize in sports like being the heavyweight champion of the world. While the quality of the division has ebbed and flowed with time, the mystique and allure of the heavyweight champion has never faltered. There are few prizes that so intimately tie you to the the history of the sport like being called the heavyweight champion. It ties you to monumental sports figures such as Mike Tyson, Joe Frazier, Joe Louis, Rocky Marciano, Jack Johnson, George Foreman, and Muhammad Ali. People who have transcended the sport of boxing and are just widely known outside the sport. Being a part of that lineage ties you to some of the most significant athletes the modern world has ever had.

So when Oleksandr Usyk and Tyson Fury face off this Saturday (May 18th) to determine who is the undisputed heavyweight champion of the world, they are bringing all of that history with them into the ring with them.

Undisputed - a quick explainer

One of the little secrets that many non-boxing fans don’t know is that there has never been a singular heavyweight title (or any weight class) in boxing. Titles are conferred by organizations called sanctioning bodies. The title of undisputed goes to the boxer that has won all major titles in a weight class at the same time. Men like Muhammad Ali was the undisputed heavyweight champion in the 2 belt era of boxing (WBA and WBC) while Mike Tyson was undisputed in the 3 belt era (WBA, WBC, and IBF). The last undisputed heavyweight champion was Lennox Lewis back in 2000,another in the 3-belt era. It’s a hard feat that involves not just skill, but a lot of political maneuvering and money being thrown around to make it happen. 

Currently, there are four major sanctioning bodies: WBC, WBA, IBF, and WBO. No individual belt is technically worth more than any other, but having one signifies you are one of the very best in the world at your weight class. The winner of Usyk-Fury will be the first heavyweight to ever win all four belts.

[saturnplaza]

 He wraps his arms around my waist keeping his gaze locked onto my eyes.

 I press myself closer to him. 

Arms around him, Staring right back. 

Looking into his eyes. Everything around seems quiet and slow. 

Shallow breaths. 

Hold on tighter. 

You know this is when you’ll meet your demise. 

Embrace your death while holding onto a stranger. 

Someone you’re intertwined with, in such little time.

A bond that couldn’t compare to any companionship.

No matter how long the time.

The urge to survive is gone. It's time to accept it. 

Me and You at the end of things. 

If you had asked me yesterday i’d say: 

I’d say you were no one to me. 

Now look, what are we? 

This is real love, and I see it in your eyes.

We both can feel it.

Real love. 

Not what they tell in tales.

Real love is death in the arms of a stranger. 

Cause no matter how little you know of each other.

Trauma Brings Love Among Other Things.

No matter how strong a bond may be — You can never have your souls intertwined

Unless you’re like this. 

To have lived together.

To have survived together.

To have lost and regained hope.

To have it all means almost nothing.

But to know it all had a reason. 

So you can both feel it.

Real love.

[burdened-boy]

2086 :: death rings thru my cell phone

Limbo, on a whim, journeys out to the wasteland to kill a random guy in cold blood. For money, of course.

Death Rings Thru My Cell Phone

I can imagine the orange sunlight painting the grass and dirt around me as fire. Gasoline pumped into the eternally hungry Toronado, the price of this fillup soaring into the three figures in under a minute. Even out in the wastelands, fuel of the most impotent quality was still so fucking expensive. Me and the car were alone at the sketchy old Gulf station, an empty concrete island floating in the aforementioned burning landscape around me. The flames around me raged on, giving way to a nighttime that was as dark as nuclear winter.

Silently, I watched the little wheels of the gas pump spin faster and faster, like a slot machine. On further thought, gassing up my car here was a lot like gambling; who knew if my supercharged block of 1970s iron would even run on this soup of various ethanol, additives and detergents?

Feeling a buzzing sensation on my thigh, I slid my phone out of my pocket. My cracked glass screen displayed a grim message: there was an open contract in my area. A future victim, running on borrowed time from the moment I felt my phone vibrate. I ruminated on the message for a moment, debating if I wanted to even bother with this clown or let someone else have it. Harsh white LED lights cast a shadow from my hand and wrist and onto the concrete slab on which I stood. Noticing the natural sun setting, I decided not to rest on my laurels just yet. The moment I stop is the moment I lose touch. 

With a click, the car was full. Jackpot. I nonchalantly slammed the nozzle back onto the pump, and muscle memory naturally lifted my finger to press the “no receipt” button. However, for a brief moment, instead of asking me if I even wanted a receipt, the phrase, “YOU WILL REAP WHAT YOU SOW” suddenly appeared, flickering and jarring like an old VHS subtitle. Heart jumping, I took a second look at the message, only to find that it was instantly gone. The screen on the gas pump went black all together after that, leaving me to look at my own reflection, completely dumbfounded. There was nobody around, not even an attendant to mention this to at this credit-card-only station.

The open can of Red Bull in my cup holder still fizzed as I eased myself into the driver’s seat. With a turn of the key and quick pump of the gas pedal, the supercharger before me whirred to life as I started the car, confused, and wondering if what I had just seen was even real. My head unit switched on and started playing my music, but as I eased out onto the desolate highway and floored it, I turned the volume all of the way down. I wasn’t planning on making some money tonight, but then again, idle hands are the devil’s playthings.

Hits in out in the wasteland are rare, which, come to think of it, make bugging out here a pretty solid idea if someone ever wants you dead. Just don’t expect much company. Or running water. My headlights sliced through the gloom as I sailed further and further away from the gray walls of Los Angeles, and out into the irradiated wasteland. 

A few minutes later, and the last verse of Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now slowly faded away. In my peripheral vision, a small flash of light gets caught by my rear view mirror. It was an ultralight aircraft, a flimsy, triangular job existing somewhere between the form of an airplane and a powered paraglider. The mystery aviator was positioned at what was roughly my eight o’clock, and traveling in the same direction as me. Deep in my electronic brain-bucket, my eyebrows frowned, and my stomach dropped. I glanced at my surroundings, pondering just how desolate they were. A small, low-flying aircraft, out at this hour, over the dangerous wastelands? My first instinct was the raiders. They were reconnoitering me, and coordinating a roadblock not too far ahead. In this scenario, I would have tried to shoot the plane down, and use the hopefully injured pilot as a bargaining chip. This, in reality, was delusional, though. For one, none of my guns could reach that far. It was also entirely possible that this was some insane, incompetent hobbyist, and I would be wasting ammunition and courage on someone that was completely oblivious to what was happening. Even if it was a civilian, they shouldn’t have been out here.

Worse still, I couldn’t even turn off my headlamps. It was getting dark, and barreling into a raider blockade at highway speeds was obviously not how I planned to die tonight. I sighed, loaded my shotgun, and turned this into a race. According to my GPS, I was only on this empty highway for about fifteen more minutes. If I could shave some time off my ETA, maybe I would reach my target’s house before the hypothetical blockade would be completed. Then again, that was assuming they weren’t already ready for me, and more than fifteen minutes out. There really wasn’t all that much I could do, other than to be ready for a sudden stop and an armed confrontation. I wondered if these scrawny, meth-crazed jackals knew who they were dealing with.

Nevertheless, I pushed on, the yellow glow of my headlamps burning like eyes in the night. Gradually, the little airplane began to slip away, but it remained in my peripheral vision like a floater in my eye. Dread pinched my stomach, but it slowly began to fade into a dull numbness. The white lines of the highway blurred into a translucent beam, dashing past my mirror while the engine droned in my ears. I yawned; paranoia is exhausting. 

Suddenly, I saw something. Instantly, my foot went to the brake, and both hands gripped the wheel. On the left side of the road, a large, rectangular object, with the outline of a pickup truck parked beside it. I braced myself, ready to broadside a possible assailant and let them have it with my gun. Closer and closer it crept, my supercharger whooshing as I let off the gas. Noticing motion on my phone’s screen, I glanced down, and immediately felt like an idiot. I had arrived at my destination. There were no raiders, no blockade. All I had to worry about was murdering someone. 

I let the shiny black door of my Olds clap shut, kicking up a puff of grit into the air. By now, the sun was just barely peeking out from behind the horizon, and darkness had taken over for the most part. The air was cool, and my surroundings peaceful. Silently, I thanked my lucky stars that this hit didn’t appear to involve a dog. In my worries about the raiders, I had forgotten to consider that I might have to contend with a German Shepherd as soon as I pulled up. If you live in a dangerous area, your most vital asset is a dog. Tiny begged me to set up this space-age security system in our house that probably wiretaps our conversations and steals her fingerprints, but I think the best way to protect your shit is to buy a mean looking dog from the pound.

After checking for tripwires, a few good whacks turned the trailer’s paper-thin door into tinfoil, and I’m inside. The flashlight on my shotgun is already on, flooding the pitch black single-wide with holy white light. It was two paces to the drab trailer’s only bedroom, and a single steal-toed kick to the door sent it open. My target, asleep and surrounded by empty bottles, barely stirred as I leveled the shotgun at his face. I squeezed the trigger, my gun letting out two consecutive booms. The murder shakes glass, soils sheets, and pounds my eardrums, but as soon as the violence is here, it’s over. My stomach flooded with a familiar soup of satisfaction and easily-dismissed disgust with my actions. Another faceless stranger wasted by another faceless stranger, all because I opened a text on Telegram. I didn’t even check to see if there was anyone else in the trailer; this settlement’s design was far too rudimentary to even bother. The master bedroom didn’t even have a closet - my target’s clothes were scattered on the floor amongst aforementioned booze and codeine cough syrup bottles. 

In the kitchen, I could already hear my colleagues calling me a coward for killing a man in his sleep. Let it be known now that I am beyond caring. After all, the other guy having a gun or a knife doesn’t get me any more money. Their jeering voices prattled on in my head as I cranked all of the knobs on the stove wide open, and stepped outside. For good measure, I popped one of the lines off the trailer’s air conditioner, and let the flammable refrigerant out. My movements were robotic and methodical as I assembled a molotov cocktail out of some junk I found strewn across the property, and as glass shattered and the house burned, I checked my phone. The pictures of the crime scene I had sent had been received, and the precious bounty for tonight’s work was instantly deposited into my bank account. The transaction was labeled “second hand Macbook Pro.”

Slowly turning around, my heart jumped as I spotted the ultralight from earlier. However, instead of stalking me from above, its skeletal outline was comically parked in front of my car. Swallowing, and steeling myself for further confrontation, I drew my 9mm and pointed it at the masked occupant unbuckling themselves from the seat. The pilot must have seen me, because their body language hardly changed upon having a gun brandished at them. 

“It looks like the early bird gets the worm, Mr. Limbo,” a female voice cooed. She reached up to take her helmet off, but by the first syllable of her quip, I already knew what this was. I recognized this assassin’s tone, but I didn’t know her personally. 

“Yeah, but the second mouse gets the cheese,” I muttered, walking towards my car. 

“Your pictures were incredible,” the aviatrix called out after me, “I just saw them now. You’re so…efficient.”

Oh, geez, thank you, I wanted to pipe up sarcastically, but I could already feel the adrenaline fading. Instead, I remember muttering something under my breath and slipping away in my car. 

[inkskinned]

because sometimes there are invisible tests and invisible rules and you're just supposed to ... know the rule. someone you thought of as a friend asks you for book recommendations, so you give her a list of like 30 books, each with a brief blurb and why you like it. later, you find out she screenshotted the list and send it out to a group chat with the note: what an absolute freak can you believe this. you saw the responses: emojis where people are rolling over laughing. too much and obsessive and actually kind of creepy in the comments. you thought you'd been doing the right thing. she'd asked, right? an invisible rule: this is what happens when you get too excited.

you aren't supposed to laugh at your own jokes, so you don't, but then you're too serious. you're not supposed to be too loud, but then people say you're too quiet. you aren't supposed to get passionate about things, but then you're shy, boring. you aren't supposed to talk too much, but then people are mad when you're not good at replying.

you fold yourself into a prettier paper crane. since you never know what is "selfish" and what is "charity," you give yourself over, fully. you'd rather be empty and over-generous - you'd rather eat your own boundaries than have even one person believe that you're mean. since you don't know what the thing is that will make them hate you, you simply scrub yourself clean of any form of roughness. if you are perfect and smiling and funny, they can love you. if you are always there for them and never admit what's happening and never mention your past and never make them uncomfortable - you can make up for it. you can earn it.

don't fuck up. they're all testing you, always. they're tolerating you. whatever secret club happened, over a summer somewhere - during some activity you didn't get to attend - everyone else just... figured it out. like they got some kind of award or examination that allowed them to know how-to-be-normal. how to fit. and for the rest of your life, you've been playing catch-up. you've been trying to prove that - haha! you get it! that the joke they're telling, the people they are, the manual they got- yeah, you've totally read it.

if you can just divide yourself in two - the lovable one, and the one that is you - you can do this. you can walk the line. they can laugh and accept you. if you are always-balanced, never burdensome, a delight to have in class, champagne and glittering and never gawky or florescent or god-forbid cringe: you can get away with it.

you stare at your therapist, whom you can make jokes with, and who laughs at your jokes, because you are so fucking good at people-pleasing. you smile at her, and she asks you how you're doing, and you automatically say i'm good, thanks, how are you? while the answer swims somewhere in your little lizard brain:

how long have you been doing this now? mastering the art of your body and mind like you're piloting a puppet. has it worked? what do you mean that all you feel is... just exhausted. pick yourself up, the tightrope has no net. after all, you're cheating, somehow, but nobody seems to know you actually flunked the test. it's working!

aren't you happy yet?

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

the fact that shakespeare was a playwright is sometimes so funny to me. just the concept of the "greatest writer of the English language" being a random 450-year-old entertainer, a 16th cent pop cultural sensation (thanks in large part to puns & dirty jokes & verbiage & a long-running appeal to commoners). and his work was made to be watched not read, but in the classroom teachers just hand us his scripts and say "that's literature"

just...imagine it's 2450 A.D. and English Lit students are regularly going into 100k debt writing postdoc theses on The Simpsons screenplays. the original animation hasn't even been preserved, it's literally just scripts and the occasional SDH subtitles.txt. they've been republished more times than the Bible

[regicide1997]

"No more Mr Niceguy!" —Ms Niceguy, coming out as trans

Give me your money:

[adriles]

when we’re done with our overwhelming grief we’ll eat i guess

[thebluemallet]

Portia may not have always been the best mother, but she was the only one who noticed and brought attention to the fact that Penelope wrote terrible things about herself in Whistledown once she learned the truth.

Someone should write a fic where that is brought to Colin and Eloise's attention by someone else and they both have that "oh shit!" moment.

[cashmoneyyysstuff]

you’ve been katsuki’s for as long as you can remember.

sure, he had never outwardly called you his girlfriend, but when you were both seven years old, he came up to you. chest heaving slightly from running up and down the hill where he had gotten you a freshly plucked out bouquet of flowers. the roots were still clinging to them and he got dirt all over your hands from forcibly grabbing them and shoving the bouquet in them before you could even form a sentence.

“since you accepted the flowers, you’re mine now.” he mumbled, his little hands tightened into fists at his sides and chubby cheeks a cute shade of pink, staring at you as confidently as he could.

a grin grows on his face when you respond with a simple “okay !” and a bright smile. the grin on his face never disappears even as his mom scolds him for getting you both all dirty.

you were katsuki’s in middle school too, when the boys in class decided to play kiss, marry, kill and he had somehow gotten dragged into it. the girls in your class tried their best to seem uninterested, claiming the boys were being childish, but you noticed how hard some of them were straining their ears trying to hear what the guys were talking about in their own little corner of the room. you’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little curious as well.

katsuki was as ruthless as you’d known him to be, choosing to kill any girl that wasn’t to his liking, which ended up being all of them. much to the other boys’ chagrin, claiming he had no taste.

then your name was brought up.

at that, his eyes widened and he turned in his seat to see if you were watching. you had never turned your head away so fast in your life and you were pretty sure you heard something go “crack”.

he clicked his tongue. mumbling something about how stupid the game was before muttering out a “kiss yn, marry yn and kill that other bitch.” before getting up and stomping away, claiming he had to go to the bathroom followed closely by the whoops and hollers of his two friends behind him.

you both made eye contact when he walked out and you think you’ll never forget how red his cheeks were.

you were katsuki’s when he was the one to walk you to and from school everyday, claiming you would somehow get lost without him. you were katsuki’s when he had begrudgingly shoved homemade valentines day chocolates into your arms, mumbling something about how you had been upset nobody had gotten you anything last year, conveniently leaving out the fact he had scared off all the other guys trying to offer you anything.

you were katsuki’s when he grabbed your hand during the winter because he said you’d “end up dying of hypothermia with the way you’re chittering over there.” and you were his when you were the only person he laughed around. loud, genuine laughter that you and only you could squeeze out of him. you were katsuki’s when he randomly kissed you goodnight at your door one night and he’s been doing it ever since, and gets all pouty when you turn away from his kisses to tease him.

“are we dating ?” you had asked him. you’re both in high school now and you’re in his dorm room. your legs are on his lap and he’s got a comfortable grip on your leg, which tightens after he registers your questions “hah?” he looks utterly confused and a little insulted as he looks back at you, his entire face scrunched up in confusion. you pinch his nose and he swats at your hand.

“are we dating ? like—am i your girlfriend.” you say again and katsuki’s face scrunches up even harder. he huffs and looks back at his phone, landing a little smack on your leg still placed in his lap. “ ‘course yer my fuckin’ girlfriend.” he spits out, obviously irritated. then he looks back at you “I haven’t made it obvious ?” he says sarcastically. one of his eyebrows lifted as he pokes at your leg still very much in his lap.

you simply shrug “s’not that. it’s just because you’ve never actually asked me out before, so i was a little confused on where we stood.” you mumble. he stares at you while you speak and he stares a little longer before sighing. then he leans towards you and flicks your forehead.

“ow !”

“dumbass.” he murmurs. there’s a slight pout on his face and his cheeks are light shade of pink when he looks you in the eyes again. he grabs both your cheeks with one hand and smushes them together to push your lips out and presses multiple wet kisses onto them that have you squealing and squirming. his wet lips are pulled into a smirk when he pulls back and you try your best to at least look a little angry, you really do. but it’s useless when he looks at you like that.

“of course you’re my girlfriend” he reiterates. his smirk’s been replaced for something softer, something more sincere as he gazes at you with so much unadulterated affection it makes your head spin a little. “you’ve always been mine.” he says it in a teasing tone and his hand is still smushing your cheeks out and it hurts a little but his eyes are still the same. they’re warm and soft and so, so enamored with you and only you.

when he finally let’s go of your face and pulls you fully into his lap, you realize katsuki’s been yours for as long as you’ve been his.

you smile brightly at him but turn your nose up when he leans in to kiss you again. “i still haven’t heard what i wanna hear though, mr. bakugou.”

he rolls his eyes and pinches at your thigh as he mumbles out a “don’t call me that.” sighing, he looks at you intensely and you suddenly feel very shy.

“will you be my girlfriend, ya shitty girl ?” and he says it as a joke, you both know it is cus his lips are already forming into a smirk the second he finishes his sentence. and you’re pulling at his nose the moment you register it, but you’re both smiling hard. he laughs and you’re sure you’ll never get tired of the sound. “what’s your answer, pretty ?” he asks playfully and you pretend to really think it over just to mess with him, and giggling out a “yes!” when he suddenly pounces on you. flipping you both over and tickling you mercilessly, calling it revenge for you “taking too damn long to answer.”

you’d been katsuki’s for as long as you can remember, and you hope you can be forever.

[lazylittledragon]

'i'll just do a couple of doodles of mombin™/platonic stobin parents' nevermind, borderline graphic novel

[neptunezo]

The idea of the batkids scaring Bruce with “a new grandchild” to only show an animal is so funny to me, because imagine Bruce is so used to it that when Jason wants to introduce him to his new grandchild Bruce almost falls out of his chair when there’s an ACTUAL KID!

Dick: You’re a granddaddy now Brucie!!!

Bruce: WHAT?!? Who?? When??? How??? Actually don’t tell me how. Who is she??? When did she give birth???

Dick: What? No, meet my kid *holds up a cat* her name is biscuit and shes the love of my life!

—

Steph: Cass and I are adopting…

Bruce: Holy shit, actually???

Cass: Yes, it was a tough choice, but we want to adopt

Bruce: Do you need any help with paperwork and stuff? It’s kinda my thing. Also consider the fact that you might be too young.

Steph: Too young…?

Bruce: Yes, I mean you’re only in your 20’s, are you sure you can handle a kid?

Cass: Too young for an iguana?

—

Damian: It happened again, I have a kid.

Bruce: What do you mean AGAIN?!?

Damian: This is my second kid, duh

Bruce: Are you talking about goats?

Damian: Of course I am father

—

Tim: BRUCE YOU’RE GOING TO BE A GRANDFATHER!!!

Bruce: Tim I didn’t think I was going to have to tell you this again after the whole thing with Stephanie, but just kissing someone doesn’t get them pregnant

Tim:

Bruce: Is it a dog?

Tim: No it’s a tiger

—

Jason: I have something to tell you

Bruce(not looking up from his paperwork): Okay, what’s up?

Jason: I have a kid, I want you to meet your granddaughter

Bruce: I can’t possibly imagine what type of animal you’ve gotten, but I’d love to meet her

Jason: What the hell are you talking about?

Bruce (looking up to see an actual child): You actually have a kid????

Jason: Yeah, Roy and I thought it was time I adopted Lian

Lian: Hi Grandpa!!!

Bruce: I’m going to faint, grab me some ice will you?

[a-rabbit-obsessed-queer]

Aspec men deserve much more respect and recognition in the aspec community than they receive. They often face a different form of aphobia specific to them ("men are naturally sexual they can't be ace" "all men are unromantic that's not unique") this rhetoric is spouted by many, even members of our own community and I hope for a day where that is no longer the case. As an ace and demiro woman (demigirl but that's beside the point) I want to encourage folks to take the time to give the aspec men in their lives support and to the aspec men reading, you are who you say you are no matter what people say and you deserve the world. I'm sorry for the ways in which toxic masculinity has harmed you. You are a valued member of the aspec community and the queer community as a whole. No ace or aro person is broken and neither are you. I'm sorry if anyone has ever told you otherwise.

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[aslyran]

Visions

[icaruspendragon]

make sure to leave suppressed bisexuality and self-worth issues out for castiel tonight