I came prepared baby, brought a ring too

oozey mess
YOU ARE THE REASON

blake kathryn

tannertan36
we're not kids anymore.

@theartofmadeline
Today's Document
Jules of Nature
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
RMH

pixel skylines
Sweet Seals For You, Always

Origami Around
Mike Driver
One Nice Bug Per Day

Kaledo Art

titsay
KIROKAZE

let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
seen from Switzerland

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@fictionspacecowboy
I came prepared baby, brought a ring too

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People don’t even say w00t anymore.
This sux00rz…
Richard Nadler
stop posting butch and femme miles davis
if a person refers to themself as a “silly little guy” they are usually filled with a deep evil

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I’m so happy the Carbonite is gone. I’m movin’ on. I’m so happy that it’s over now. The pain is gone.
i really like necrobinder tbh, she is so cutieful to me
The iron hook slid free from his shoulder with a wet metallic shriek. Something black and arterial splashed across the stones between them.
The torturer stepped back instinctively. Not out of mercy. Out of surprise. The prisoner laughed. Not loudly. Worse than loudly. Softly. Like he had just remembered a private joke older than civilization.
“You still think pain is a language,” he said.
Another blow. This time across the mouth. Teeth cracked. Blood sheeted down his chin in long ribbons.
The interrogator hissed through clenched teeth. “Tell me where God went.”
The prisoner turned his head slowly. There was blood in his smile now.
“There are organisms,” he said, “living beneath Antarctic ice that have never seen the sun and have still learned how to eat.”
The room had gone very still. Somewhere in the dark, machinery groaned.
The interrogator grabbed him by the jaw hard enough to bruise bone.
“You think this makes you immortal?”
The prisoner spat a clot of red onto the floor between them.
“No,” he whispered.
“I think it makes you temporary.”
The torches flickered.
For one impossible second, the interrogator became aware of his own pulse. The heat in his veins. The soft wetness of his eyes. The damp animal electricity inside every living thing. The prisoner watched realization bloom across his face and smiled wider, blood running between his teeth.
“You cannot threaten a creature from the dirt,” he said, “with returning to the dirt.”
— excerpt from Shit I Just Made Up To Exemplify How All This Tumblr Prose Sounds

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play slay the spire 2
ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ 🤣⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎ ︎ ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎ ︎ ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ 😂⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀🤣 ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ 😂⠀ ⠀︎ ︎ ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ😂⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎ ︎ ᅠ😂⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ🤣⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀😂 ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎😂⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎😂 ︎ ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀😂 ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎ ︎ ᅠ⠀ ⠀ 🤣⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ 😂︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀😂 ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀😂 ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎ ︎ ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ᅠᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀🤣ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎ ︎ ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ😂⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀😂 ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀😂 ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀😂 ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎ ︎ ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀😂ᅠ⠀︎ ︎🤣⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀😂 ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎ ︎ ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ 😂⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀😂 ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀🤣 ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎ ︎ ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ 😂⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ᅠ⠀😂 ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎ ︎ ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎😂⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎🤣⠀ ⠀ᅠ😂⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀🤣 ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ😂 ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎ ︎ ᅠ⠀ ⠀😂 ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ😂⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀😂ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ 😂⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ😂⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎ ︎ ᅠ⠀ ⠀ 😂⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀😂 ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎ ︎ ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ 😂⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀😂ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀🤣 ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎ ︎ ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ🤣⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ 😂⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎ ︎ ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀ᅠ⠀︎ ︎⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀︎⠀ ⠀🤣 ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ᅠ⠀ ⠀ ⠀😂ᅠ⠀︎
What ive been smoking on
IT’S SPRINGTIME YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS. PASS THE INSTRUCTIONS ON NOT GIVING UP BY ADA LIMÓN
IT’S THE GREENING OF THE TREES THAT REALLY GETS TO ME!!!!!!!!!!!

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I beg your sweet fucking pardon
In Orwell’s essay “A Hanging,” the writer watches the condemned man, walking toward the gallows, swerve to avoid a puddle. For Orwell, this represents precisely what he calls the “mystery” of the life that is about to be taken: when there is no good reason for it, the condemned man is still thinking about keeping his shoes clean. It is an “irrelevant” act (and a marvelous bit of noticing on Orwell’s part). Now suppose this were not an essay but a piece of fiction. And indeed there has been a fair amount of speculation about the proportion of fact to fiction in such essays of Orwell’s.
The avoidance of the puddle would be precisely the kind of superb detail that, say, Tolstoy might flourish; War and Peace has an execution scene very close in spirit to Orwell’s essay, and it may well be that Orwell basically cribbed the detail from Tolstoy. In War and Peace, Pierre witnesses a man being executed by the French, and notices that, just before death, the man adjusts the blindfold at the back of his head, because it is uncomfortably tight. The avoidance of the puddle, the fiddling with the blindfold—these are what might be called irrelevant or superfluous details. They are not explicable; in fiction, they exist to denote precisely the inexplicable. This is one of the “effects” of realism, of “realistic” style.
But Orwell’s essay, assuming it records an actual occurrence, shows us that such fictional effects are not merely conventionally irrelevant, or formally arbitrary, but have something to tell us about the irrelevance of reality itself (…) There was no logical reason for the condemned man to avoid the puddle. It was pure remembered habit. Life, then, will always contain an inevitable surplus, a margin of the gratuitous, a realm in which there is always more than we need: more things, more impressions, more memories, more habits, more words, more happiness, more unhappiness.
— JAMES WOOD, from How Fiction Works.
What exactly do these irrational standards mean? They mean the supremacy of the detail over the general, of the part that is more alive than the whole, of the little thing which a man observes and greets with a friendly nod of the spirit while the crowd around him is being driven by some common impulse to some common goal. I take my hat off to the hero who dashes into a burning house and saves his neighbor’s child; but I shake his hand if he has risked squandering a precious five seconds to find and save, together with the child, its favorite toy. I remember a cartoon depicting a chimney sweep falling from the roof of a tall building and noticing on the way that a sign-board had one word spelled wrong, and wondering in his headlong flight why nobody had thought of correcting it. In a sense, we all are crashing to our death from the top story of our birth to the flat stones of the churchyard and wondering with an immortal Alice in Wonderland at the patterns of the passing wall. This capacity to wonder at trifles — no matter the imminent peril — these asides of the spirit, these footnotes in the volume of life are the highest forms of consciousness, and it is in this childishly speculative state of mind, so different from commonsense and its logic, that we know the world to be good.
— VLADIMIR NABOKOV, from Lectures on Literature.