summertime sadness

infinite list of favorite foods:

Untitled legs series by Kyle Thompson

Once upon a time, there were three siblings.

The eldest, a son, was a saint. The holy fire lit him from within, burned him to an ashen shell. He wandered across ice, through water, his twisted and scorched feet barely touching the ground, trailing steam. Where he walked, the world emptied of color, and his grey-eyed followers went on behind him.

The second child, a daughter, was a martyr. For God, she wound her legs with barbed wire and walked the earth, filled and vacated by the wind, eyes burned unseeing blue. Where she bled, the ground grew green and fertile. Her bones were picked apart by birds, and a cathedral built over them.

The youngest child was a writer. She wore Doc Martins and wandered around in an omnipresent haze of cigarette smoke. She liked vodka, words like quaintrelle and metanoia, Russian novels. At night, she stood on her balcony and screamed obscenities to a God she did not believe in.