project literature

there’s only one thing that can offer security: me. if i can make my own decisions, if i follow my own path and still find a way to let others in along the way, i’ll be protected from this.

— carefully, she stands. and she runs her hand across the top of thomasina’s gravestone as she leaves, like how, as girls, they would let go of hands — gradually, moving their fingertips over each other’s palms, as gently as raindrops. she has done this for sixty-eight years and there is a dip on the stone from this. she has worn the stone down with her loving goodbyes.

for @walkerreynolds 🤍 

— which of us could say we were more sinned against than sinning? we were so easily manipulated - confusion made a masterpiece of us (insp)

And I add my own love to the history of people who have loved beautiful things, and looked out for them, and pulled them from the fire, and sought them when they were lost, and tried to preserve them and save them while passing them along literally from hand to hand, singing out brilliantly from the wreck of time to the next generation of lovers, and the next.

She was no victim of destiny. She was the last Speerly, commander of the Cike, and a shaman who called the gods to do her bidding. And she would call the gods to do such terrible things.

Despite her words of warning, Maritza didn’t seem worried about getting into a heap of trouble. In fact, she looked downright excited. Dark eyes wide, a devilish grin played across her lips that Yadriel knew all too well.

— the myth itself is proof enough that ballet is my destiny - how could anything as strange as this get passed down from generation to generation if it weren’t true?

for @laststop

@projectliterature​ event 04 : free week — a live-action adaptation of Charles Perrault’s Bluebeard

— those who do not weep, do not see

love is like ballet in that way: to be worth it, it has to be painful at times. exquisitely so.

“Truth is irrefutable and untainted by bias. Sunrise, Abram, death: these are truths.”

   — “Therein lies the paradox of the profession”, Faraday said. “Those who wish to have the job should not have it and those who would most refuse to kill are the only ones who should.”

the only word that comes close to describing it is longing. a deep, ravenous longing for dear ones beyond the pale and a home beyond the sea. a longing for a love that endures because it remembers. 

— richard was pure power, six foot three and carved from concrete