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i’m like touch starved but for a river

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new tour trailer got me like

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When vampires are portrayed as mainly preying on women that's so unrealistic like I'm sorry but they're too careful especially around strange men. Dudes are much easier. You could literally lurk in a bush in the park at night and call out "whoa look at this fucked up looking squirrel" and have 3 grown men climb in immediately

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you can post literally anything anywhere and some harry potter fan will appear and be like OMG this is just like flerky parsons #maraudersera 😍😍 and half the time flerky parsons is like, a race purist who was mentioned in the books maybe twice offhand and never had a single line of dialogue or a physical description

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they’re putting frank iero in saw traps

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I dont condone any artist that is alive because they might change

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the renaissance of freaky vampires in media makes me so unbelievably happy it’s what god intended.

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signed

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I climb the water tower at the end of the world.

Transient, the moment between spring and summer. April 13th and it’s 90 degrees. It’s gonna be a hot one, scorched bones and my shadow lingering, clinging to the stark white ruins of the neighborhood pool; weather’s weird around here. Half-asleep but never dreaming. There’s a throbbing behind my temple, undulating like the churning of the universe, like thunderstorm wind in the maple trees. I hope the bomb lands in Washington. Politicians-now-silhouettes silent on the steps of capitol hill. But the clover is lush and the mourning dove coos and if there's a heaven it oughta look like this one. Forget about the humidity. Forget about the end of the world. Let's climb the water tower up, up to the edge of the sky. The Promised Land, and I don't believe in God but I believe in you—sweaty palms and a stench like iron disappearing into the sun. In my imagination, we haul our aching bodies over the cloudbursts, over the shellshock, over the wreckage of our ghost-town. Long legs dangling, I can see it from here. Can’t you? The plastic flowers and roadside crosses. The charred backroads and bar-patios. The carcass of the house where I used to sleep. And I’ve seen your face bathed in stage lights, watched your head fill with smoke, red eyes screaming Jesus Christ, get me outta here, out of this dead-country where the sunsets look like oil spills, where nothin’ ever changes and no one ever leaves. And somewhere there's a half-drunk cup of coffee, an unmade bed, a book I'll never finish. Too busy pulling myself out of the event horizon. Picking the red dirt out of my teeth. You’ll feel better in the morning. But this time, I wake up retching.

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ohh the custom fonts. for the tour

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Erich Schrempp

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©Philomena Famulok

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Mister Designer, 1987, Oleg Teptsov