#iiichabod

                       ❛an' wha' c'n i do f' you, sir?❜     his voice is soft and faraway; his mouth is hardly moving.     his crimes may be punishable by a hanging,  but his eyes     were so  tethered   to the ground that the only rope around     his neck was a binding chain down to  h e l l.  pale fingers     squeeze the back of the chair,  and slide away as he goes     to the  corner to  retrieve a  towel,  with  nary  a  backward                                 glance at the constable. 

     Oh,   c h r i s t   . . .                       ⊰ ♡ ⊱ ——- ；❝ 'at's no' wot I'm sayin' a' all, lad..                                                        no need t'a ge' y' featha's all i' a ruffle. ❞

      ”We trust you will find the murderer,       Mr. Crane. It would be t e r r i b l e if       someone was wrongfully accused."

if i have to use chrome i will. like not even saving them one by one is working. so chrome here i come.

         There the creature remained, partially-mechanical cardiovascular          muscle   racing    agonizingly  in   his   chest.   A    long,      rather          uncomfortable lapse of silence would pass before he would speak                                                        -- as directed.     ⊰ ✄ ⊱ - - - ; ❝ I a-am  E d w a r d .  ❞

          ❝ Yikes ! Word of advice? Get a tan!  ❞

also why do I hear this song now in my head thats not okay

Eek I don't think I can actually do that...I'm not working in photoshop.