the cobalt and carnelian of that bird

I think if we keep encouraging Tumblr YA comedy-fantasy authors we can really put a dent in the idea that it's possible for writing to be good

dude, this is really scary, and liminal as well. It's like the bathrooms

anytime somebody handles a rare book or manuscript without gloves in a piece of media, an archivist/historian/librarian gets their wings. and approximately one william people who have never interacted with a rare book or manuscript ever in their lives emerge from the woodwork to yell about gloves

Sweetie your grandma deactivated last night

A flash with no noise and a gathering of gloom with a litanic rustle of the reeds. A unison of birds under a sky of dull ache, thrumb thrumming in time. The air has a taste of burnt hair on rotting soil, like lost hope never overcooked, always bemeta-Browned— a waiting for the time of the oven, for the time of toasters: when the dull grit of despair brightens, just a little, glowing in the darkness.