ꜱᴜꜰꜰᴇʀ, ᵈᵒᵉˢ ᵗʰᵉ ʷᵒˡᶠ ...

VANILLA SKY (2001) dir. Cameron Crowe

            grief presents itself in ways that no two share the same resolve, manifested with external differences, but   implicit judgement  advances in a steal gait emerging from the shadows, settling in the adjacent right sided seat to lev's prodigy.  moreno blood.  there will never be a right time, to pluck valentino out of his anguish will always be too soon and yet, it can undoubtedly be claimed that a few days since lev's passing is, in fact, too soon. “ they did the same performance yesterday. ” but he too finds difficulty in a parting glance to him, the one now to be called godfather,  the one possessing his father's resemblance,  lev's likeness. as if all the years have washed away and viktor sits there harboring secrets already known to the man holding all the cards.  they will never be rid of him.  he is there in the dimly lit audience, in the vacant office watching from above, in the remnants of what is left after those who pledged loyalty have been bled dry. “ they'll do it again tomorrow. ” he espies the nearing empty glass of alcohol on the table and a second glance is offered with no comfort presented in the inevitable, the answer he knows. “ have you been upstairs? ” 

*                        this     grief,          unpredictable     tidal     wave     of     it     all          (          …          )          you     can’t     ever     hope     to     predict     𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕     𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜,     can’t     time     them     by     analog          /          hope     to     god     that     decimation     is     only     minor,     that     it     will     only     ever     take     the     parts     of     you     most     𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐃          /          it     hits     him     at     strangest     times,     the     ache     of     it.     bone     bruise,     he     thinks,     the     way     he’ll     carry     it     with     him,     stamped     on     softest     maw.          what’s     a     king,     but     a     little     boy,     lost          ?               “          they’ve     never     changed     it.     𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾     𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗍,     𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍     𝖽𝖺𝗒,     𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾     𝖿𝗎𝖼𝗄𝗂𝗇’               …               wallets,     yanked     out,     emptied.     rinse,     repeat.          ”          liquor     -     loose,     uneasy     in     what’s     arguably     his     own     palace     now,     val     steals     sideways     glance     at     viktor          ;          god,     i     was     so     scared     of     you     when     i     was     a     kid,     y’know     that          ?          they’re     the     things     that     go     unsaid.          terrified     me.          now,     i     don’t     know     what     to     do     with     that     fear.               “               no.               ”               gratitude     shines     something     𝖤𝖡𝖴𝖫𝖫𝖨𝖤𝖭𝖳     when     he     latches     onto     refilled     glass,     tucks     it     tight     to     his     chest          /          the     light     catches     on     signet     ring,          glimmers          with     all     of     its     horrible     promise.               “               i     haven’t               …               been     up     yet.     s’too               …               ”               too     soon          /          too     morbid          /          knows,          intimately,           that     something     beneath     his     ribs     will     crack,     𝗳𝗿𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗹𝗲,     when     he     does.          i     don’t     want     you     watching     when     i     fall     apart.

*                        the     thing     about     this     city,          it’s     rotted     from     the     very     insides          ;          overeager     fingers     pry     into     its     guts          +          come     away     𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗦𝗛𝗘𝗗,     stained,     forever     changed          /          fuck     knows     it’s     a     good     way     to     make     your     money,     but     it          robs          you     of     something.     comfort     to     be     found,     then,     in     making     a     tentative     peace     with     𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚍     𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜,     𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚛     𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎               …               oh,     how     she’s     learned          !          life’s     work,     to     make     a     study     in     where     to     push     boundaries          /          where     she     can     take     a     sharp,     inquisitive     mind,     how     she     can     fashion     something     finely     -     honed     out     of     rough     -     hewn     𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵:          case     study,     currently     sprawled     across     pavement,     babbling     about     birds.          jesus.          “               do     you     think     of     being     an     𝗮𝗻𝗶𝗺𝗮𝗹     often,     then          ?               ”               cant     of     the     head,     keen     cut     to     the     way     russet     hues     narrow.     𝗂𝗇     𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍     𝗈𝖿     𝗍𝗁𝖾     𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌,          𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅               …               “               explain     to     me     how     that’s     going     to     work.               ”               all     five     foot     nothing,     balanced     in     teetering     louboutins     and     anchored     by     twist     of     sharp     features,     somewhere     between     amusement          +          a     sardonic     kind     of     concern,          is     this     kid     fuckin’     on     something          ?            —     -                    “               i     don’t     think     we’re     quite     the     same     size,     honey.               ”

*                        blessed     be     it,          night     off     from     a     pointedly     maudlin     routine     grown     wearisome     with     its     age          /          only     so     many     hungry     gazes     she     can     bear,     burnt     into     skin          tired          of     shameless     exposure.          (          keeps     the     bills     paid,     fine,     but     jesus               …               𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒     𝗃𝗈𝖻     𝗌𝗁𝖾’𝗌     𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋     𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗇,     not     like     she     can     turn     around          +          tend     fuckin’          bar.     )          devoid     of     its     glamour,     blue     moon     is     dualfold:          home,     the     first     place     you     run     from.          𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐩,     𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐲     𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞     𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐞     𝐛𝐚𝐫,     on     the     other     hand               …          oh,     the     anonymity          !          perfect     example,     she     supposes,     when     figure     tumbles     out     of     back     door     with     ridiculous     proposal.     noise     that     abounds     isn’t     what     one     would     expect               —               rough,     edged     in     dirt          /          𝙶𝚁𝙸𝙼𝙴          /          grit,     not     a     nectarous     titter     but     a     husky     chuckle     that     resonates          deep.          made     worse,     of     course,     by     the     𝗺𝗮𝗿𝗹𝗯𝗼𝗿𝗼     that     hangs     between     elegant     digits.          (          noticeably     devoid     of     usual     manicure,     sheen     worn     off          ;          there     are     bite     marks     down     to     that     vulnerable     quick,     red     -     raw,     aching.          )          “               isn’t     getting     punched     in     a     parking     lot     the          worst          cliche          ?               ”

*                        they     stick     out,          fuckin’     dogs’     balls     amongst     the     filth          /          suited,     neat,     caricature     of          police     procedural.          she’s     even     got     a     𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐋𝐀     folder     sat,     face     down,     alongside     cappuccino     that     bears     signature     print,     revlon     stain     on     dirty     china.     there’s     𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐     𝚝𝚘     𝚋𝚎     𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍     for     meetings     in     public               —               element     of     surprise     when     she     slides     into     adjacent     booth,     unnoticed     until     she’s     greeted          +          promptly     ignored.          𝖳𝖸𝖯𝖨𝖢𝖠𝖫.          agents     these     days          …          sculpted     brow     arches,     practically     into     her     hairline               —               “               tsk,     tsk,     agent     tenant.     do     you     kiss     your     mother     with     that     mouth          ?               ”               rich     lacquer     taps     staccato     into     diner     table          (          oh,     she     notes     the     grease     that     collects     just     underneath          ;          doesn’t     wince,     to     immeasurable     credit          !          )               —               “               if     you     were     angling     for     a     𝗉𝖺𝗒     𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖾,     this     is     the          wrong          way     to     go     about     it.               ”

Havana Rose Liu in AMERICAN HORROR STORIES, 3x04 "Organ", directed by Petra Collins.

*                         easy     enough,     to     lose     track          of     how     oft     sacred     position     is     taken          ;          pews     bear     peculiar     patina     now,     𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀     𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁     𝗍𝗁𝖾     𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒     𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽     𝗂𝗇     𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖾     -     𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗇          !          (          only     tradition     he     can     fuck     with,     it     is          …          sunday     service,     knees     bear     the     constant     stain     of     it:          forgive     me,     father.     i     spit     my     confessions     at     your     feet,     preening     cat     with     still     -     twitching     KILL     in     dripped     -     red     maw,     no     𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐥     𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲     can     save     me     now.          )          helena     exists     in     blissful     tandem     with     it     all,          partner     in     crime          in     so     many     ways          …          new     ones     born     of     devastating     circumstances,     he     supposes.          (          speaking     of:          sunglasses     in     church          ?          really          ?          calvin     kleins     stay          firmly          on,     a     careful     shade     to     hide     slashes     of     indigo     that     give     away     a     sleepless     night     or     six.          )          swift     kiss     brushed     against     the     planes     of     their     cheekbone     before     he     plucks     lit     cigarette     from     their     grip,     inhales     deeply     enough     that     there’s     an     accompanying     noise.          guttural.               “               and     father     paul     keeps     tellin’     you     it’s     rude     to     litter     in     the     𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎     𝚘𝚏     𝚝𝚑𝚎     𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚍.               ”               artless     flick     of     ashes     onto     floor,     case     in     point          !          it’s     the     faintest     hint     of     a     grin     that     curls     along     the     𝖇𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖊𝖓     ridge     of     his     mouth,     but     fuck,     it’s     something.               “          c’mon     then,     honey.     you     got     the     guts,     take     ‘em.               ”