#schwarzweix

          your fingers and your lips are beautiful,                     your fingers and your lips are killing me.

          such selfish prayers,                                                        and i can’t get ENOUGH.

                                                                                                                                                      @schwarzweix​​ mentioned something

bonus:

@schwarzweix

“No, let go.” She flexed her fingers and they flew away from her, but she didn’t move. Not an inch. There wasn’t even anger on her face. More of a dazed expression of confusion that made her chin tilt up. They tried to come at her again, but there was a field of raw energy around her. Then she looked down at her hands, took a breath, and looked up again. The field disappeared. “This’s weird. And I’m hungry.” 

Her mind going elsewhere as she started toward the door, bare feet almost dragging along the dusty floor. “Magic’s weird. And moody. It’s there, then it isn’t, then it’s gone, then it’s not. Sometimes I think I’m dealing with a cranky cat.” She wasn’t about to address the fact she woke up in a strange location and was wearing what looked like a tacky hospital robe, except her ass wasn’t on the show for the world. 

   the artist belongs in his studio, in a way there he is whole while nowhere else he may be. he goes there to sort out his thoughts, but never to lounge but to work, instead. in his work he finds himself, though he is ever so careful to keep his paintings their own and only in the physical labour feel it affecting him. -- and so he gazes out into the garden, through half-opened door. the air is heavy in the studio, perhaps heavier outside. his mind is also heavy, with a thought on the guest he brought home mere hours ago.

he spends more time mixing the colors than actually painting, weighs carefully each shade before reaching so tenderly to touch the canvas. here is a moment of the warm summer day. the air itself is golden yet still the artist latches so carefully on its likeness to reality. it is when he is drafting a glint of water from the garden lake unseen when the door open with a soft squeak. he turns to thank the burtler for the lemonade but is met with another face instead. he is not left unfazed.