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2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year

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@minorcritic

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if i could give advice to me as a teenager i would say be 25
Thistle is a lovely word to pronounce—it feels like drawing a bow and releasing it. An arrow at the ready; a word on the tongue.
The floor (1993) by Giorgos Rorris (b. 1963)

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my dreams, my works, must wait till after hell
by Gwendolyn Brooks
I hold my honey and I store my bread In little jars and cabinets of my will. I label clearly, and each latch and lid I bid, Be firm till I return from hell. I am very hungry. I am incomplete. And none can tell when I may dine again. No man can give me any word but Wait, The puny light. I keep eyes pointed in; Hoping that, when the devil days of my hurt Drag out to their last dregs and I resume On such legs as are left me, in such heart As I can manage, remember to go home, My taste will not have turned insensitive To honey and bread old purity could love.
A character who dies in his son’s armor at the hand of his brother...
The Hand by Ellen Altfest
fanny howe

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Vanilla vodka in pasta sauce
Tove Jansson, The Summer Book
Critics forget that Caleb Landry Jones in Dracula will allow me to indulge in what cinema once knew but has since forgotten: an intriguing face.

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My grandma only liked what she called self-respecting flowers of which the carnation was one. I have come into a sample of Hiram Green's Philtre and it is rapturously bygone. It is a kind of thrumming desire: limpid boldness. I think of a moment in the more recent film adaptation of Lady Chatterley's Lover in which the title of lady is a thing of/to desire. "You would want coarser treatment with me," Oliver realizes obediently. Philtre smells like the steaming ground where the two have lain—kneeling, broken green stems against a backdrop of pressed floral silhouettes. The single carnation of the perfume is, of course, red.