writtenbytimburton

Literally no one

Brute:

"Never are voices so beautiful as on a winter's evening, when dusk almost hides the body, and they seem to issue from nothingness with a note of intimacy seldom heard by day."

My darling you are art.

And art was never meant to be pretty

It was never meant to be easy on the eyes

If anything , art was supposed to burn

burn a hole deep enough into your skin that you’d be forced to notice it,

listen to it ,

understand it

Art is the manifestation of humanity’s disasters.

It is chaos ,

it is trouble ,

it is insanity ,

it is pain

Art is what a mind would cower to utter and a heart would race to scream.

Art is blood

and it is sweat

and it is tears.

It warms the cold and disturbs the content.

How terrifying it must be, to grow acres of trees on dead soil.

How horrifying, to find beauty in the distraught.

And yet here I am, picturing Lillies in your hair as I caress your gentle skin

If this is what it meant to be burned,

then I will claw at a life of soot and ash for a promise of a tomorrow

where your shadows intertwine with mine