d e v o n
Not today Justin
hello vonnie
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trying on a metaphor
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oozey mess
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todays bird
if i look back, i am lost
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
tannertan36
will byers stan first human second
KIROKAZE
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@resurrectiions
hey babe did it hurt when you fell from heaven? it did huh, emotionally, right I get that, because of the– yeah the irreconcilable separation from goodness as a result of a single decision that can never be undone or atoned for, uh huh, sounds rough
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god fishing out all his little angels for rapture🥺
if im his strongest soldier then God’s armys gonna lose bro
bees!
yall ever just yearn? ever get filled with the most profound sense of longing for something you cant understand? yall ever crave? ever have an unexplainable ache?
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I keep finding myself typing these long, drawn out, waxing-poetic posts. About life, about existence, about this planet and its people. About us. This system, this vessel. About disabilities, about cages, about birds, about abuse, about freedom, about isolation. They all end up deleted. None of it makes sense, or the words do not get my point across, with this limited vocabulary.
I think, mostly, I am just tired.
being alive is like: you want to go home. you don't know where home is. you want to go home. you don't know where home is. you want to go home. you haven't known for a long time. you want to go home but you don't know where you'd go. you want to go home you want to go home you want to go home
just saw a post about "sam winchester" i could have SWORN his name was dean
THERE'S TWO OF THEM???
I have this dumb headcanon that Castiel is fond of birds… and that they think he’s pretty neat too.
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cas: i’m content with not returning to earth. we have so much work to do, jack. dean will have a long, happy life, and we have to make sure that heaven is ready for him when he returns to us. we should have approximately 40 years, so let’s start w-
cas:
cas: he’s fucking here already.
castiel waiting for the episode where his friends pull off a fun heist to break him out of superhell, not knowing the show is over
The angel came to me in a fever hallucination, perched upon my bed as I returned from the bathroom.
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when Charles Bukowski said “and when nobody wakes you up in the morning, and when nobody waits for you at night, and when you can do whatever you want. what do you call it, freedom or loneliness?”
Stages of Decomposition, Embroidery by calicoranger
