#*litedit

you aren’t a flower, you’re every blossom in the wood blooming at once. you are a tidal wave. you’re a stampede. you are overwhelming.

mark how the blood of Caesar follow'd it, as rushing out of doors, to be resolv'd if Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no: for Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's Angel. judge, o you gods, how dearly Caesar lov'd him: this was the most unkindest cut of all. (Shakespeare: Julius Caesar)

– The Bear and the Nightingale, Katherine Arden

Grant knew that people could not imagine geological time. Human life was lived on another scale of time entirely. An apple turned brown in a few minutes. Silverware turned black in a few days. A compost heap decayed in a season. A child grew up in a decade. None of these everyday human experiences prepared people to be able to imagine the meaning of eighty million years - the length of time that had passed since this little animal had died.

"the following morning I returned gradually to consciousness, floating on the surface of sleep, eyes still closed. something fluttered against my shoulder and I remembered: James. [...] I opened one eye, unsure if I should move but reluctant to risk waking him. he'd rolled towards me sometime in the night, and his head was tucked against my shoulder, breath racing down my arm every time he exhaled." - m.l.rio

- if we were villains, m.l.rio

Our first off-book rehearsal did not go well.

“What?”