#ah ...

(I came across this story and at one minute over midnight, where I live, on February 24th I read the telephone bit and laughed out loud. Maybe you have seen it or not but seeing what today is... I share it with you. )

New Wave Theatre.

“Harold Ramis took charge. He arranged for a second taping a week later, getting Andy Kaufman to fill in as host. He threw out Jove's script and got a pair of handcuffs to keep him in his seat in the production room during taping. During one production meeting, he took a phone call, walking around the room, stretching the cord of the phone as he walked. When the conversation ended, he was on the other side of the room, and he simple let go of the phone, which flew across the room hitting David Jove smack in the middle of the forehead. It was the funniest moment of the whole production.”

The whole story is over at (x)

Tagged By: @spxnglr

Tagging: Everyone

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MUSIC

No matter what the season is I still love you

With all my heeeeeeeeart

bold  what  applies  to  your  muse     /     repost,  don’t  reblog  !

tagged  by  :    @nochce   &.   @lunecharm   !   ilysm   ♡ tagging  :    @stolengrim   ,   @reignpure   ,   @beautyveined   ,   @championmourned   ,   @wickerie   ,   @potionmastre   ,   @graveiary   ,   @girlcusp   !

𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑.      a chill right down to the bones.   tobogganing.   teeth chattering.   sleeping all day.   sitting by the fireplace.   spending time with family.   layered clothing.   seeing another’s breath.   loving the cold.   cold hands.   blistering winds shaking the closed windows.   a bookcase full of brand new books and all of the time in the world to read them.   cable knit socks.   a bitter remark.   a log cabin in the middle of nowhere.   hating the cold.   full-length windows to peer out of.   deep conversations.   watching the snow fall.   sharp edges.   hot cocoa.   smelling every candle in the store.   a wild snow storm.   melancholy.   lighting candles around the bathtub.   snow globes.   expressing yourself but never finding quite the right words.    the softest of blankets.   liking, but not loving something or someone.

𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆.      the smell after it rains.   being in control of yourself.   a soft breeze blowing your hair.   lightning when it strikes.   cherry blossoms.   bright mornings.   the first sign of hope.   the relief of finding something you lost.   paris in the spring.   birds chirping.   a kiss on the cheek.   the clap of thunder.   a tornado in the valley.   smiling at a stranger.   planning.   saccharine pinks.   making promises.   trying something new.   hugs when you need them most.   a bee sting.   sitting on the steps of the met.   coming inside drenched from the thunderstorm.   picnics on a red checkered blanket in the new sun.   that feeling you get when you put on a good dress.   rushing when you can take your time.   going to the gym at ungodly hours.   excitement for what’s coming.   becoming yourself.    

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑.      lanterns lit around a campfire.   seeing the sunrise like its the first time again and again.   melting ice cream.   the warmth of sun rays upon skin.   fireworks.   the feeling of never wanting something to end.   beach days.   the lone blow up floaty left in the pool, drifting with the warm nights breeze and nothing else.   music blasting at 3am, loud and proud.   palms trees on sunset boulevard.   longer days and shorter nights.   wanderlust.   nights spent staring at the stars.   sand castles.   road trips.   blood orange sunsets.   leaving the laundry to hang outside.   flowers in bloom.   sneaking out of your room late at night.   pure contentment.   barefoot in the sand.   the street lights coming on.   the sound of the ocean in a seashell.   freshly squeezed lemonade.   loose clothing.   a cannonball into the pool.   sunflowers.   the hazy pink before dusk.   relaxation.

“okay. they’re gone.”

his fatigue exists in a whisper, a harsh sound, biting through a clenched jaw. his hand presses against the brick wall he leans on, counts to five, and peeks around the corner. a single, momentary sigh of relief, minute, really. barely noticeable unless one looked for it. he had a sneaking suspicion amelie had been. it didn’t bother him too much. having someone to watch his back on occasion was useful--these days, that took form in amelie lacroix. rather odd, considering her amorphous nature, a shadow among shadows . . . she, like john wick himself, blended into even the most inane of environs. 

“some days are too close for comfort.”

it’s a philosophy he doesn’t exactly ascribe to, he believes in his own ability, he believes in the color of the world as it passes by--the predictable things, the things he can count and manage. there is no too close for comfort in john’s world, there is always i am alive but my fuse is burning short--any day now. but he says it for her sake, for the sake of his appearance as a man and not a specter, not an amorphous thing. he half-circles past her, throws a careful glance down the trash littered alleyway, and taps her shoulder. 

“we’ll move, soon. be sure to keep an eye on the fire escapes. good place for ambushes.” 

he says this with certainty, with experience as the ambusher and the ambushee. he has imprinted memories on all latticework, on all manhole covers and dimly lit corners of clubs. the world does not know john wick, but they have heard his ghost hidden under the scent of gunpowder and rot. it is an intrinsic, accepted truth. he is a myth without being the subject of it, a conspiracy without wonder. 

“are you alright, amelie? we’ll be home soon.” there is a pause that isn’t a pause, but a moment to consider a smile, a further tap on her shoulder, anything to close the distance between them and render some form of intimacy from their current predicament. “together, and safe.”