Tree trunk chair found in Kendall, England
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not gonna lie homos and homies, there's something incredibly, incredibly depressing about Batmanverse and the concept of Batjokes in particular, and it's not the murder murder stab stab death plots.
It's the collective unmentioned canon agreement around these characters never being able to escape the confinements of their narrative.
they get pushed to the very edges of their predefined thresholds, they toe the lines of their stories, they poke it and probe it and sometimes even flirt with the possibility of crossing the bounds of their narratives, but they never break throught the structure. they never go over the line, always sorta of wiggling in place; batjokes in particular is the most enticing and intriguing stagnant 85+ years story i have ever seen.
There are unspoken rules around who Batman is, what he will and will not do, and those rules are rarely questioned, if ever. No matter what he does, he cannot be in love with a man, and he cannot ever love Joker in particular. He cannot experience mental and emotional peace. he cannot kill and he cannot show sincere emotional vulnurability, he cannot experience his love in an open and unashamed way. His narrative thresholds confine him to a socially sanctioned image that is meant to be familiar and tangible to the average straight dude, and it's quite frankly exhausting to witness. Whatever happens to Batman's story, he never arrives at physical emotional or mental peace and on a foundational level his tale never changes, not really. You can almost feel it when he constantly bumps into this unspoken narrative rules and stops in his tracks, each and every goddamn time, for 85+ years. It's like a keyed up nutcracker toy soldier bumping into a wall, stumble back two steps, bump into the walls, stumble back two steps, bumpt into the wall,
As someone who loves stories that love to question their own narrative points and break through them and do something different, staring at Batmanverse comics for too long at a time lowkey feels heartbreaking, nothing ever truly changes in this bitch.
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A little shrine for old wounds
© Jee Won Park (ig: zeewipark)
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A smooth helmeted iguana clings to a mossy tree trunk, well camouflaged.
Photograph: Javier Lobon-Rovira
The British Ecological Society Annual Capturing Ecology Competition
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In the realm where dreams entwine, Beneath the moon's enchanting shine, A lone bird perches, poised and free, In a dance with celestial decree.
Its silhouette a wisp of grace, Against the moon's ethereal face, A moment captured, pure and rare, In the magic of the midnight air.
Each feather a whisper, a delicate hue, In the moon's soft embrace, anew, A symphony of shadows, light, and flight, In the quiet symphony of the night.
Oh, how the moonbeams softly sigh, As they caress the wings that fly, In this nocturnal reverie, Where reality and dreams agree.
So let us linger, hearts astir, Beneath the moon's enchanting lure, And cherish this celestial sight, In the embrace of the eternal night.
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