I discovered something useful today, taking breaks or exercising never helps me but THIS does, sharing to save a life
I just found out that some pro artists that work for companies like Dreamworks etc sometimes hold their pens this or similar way so it gotta work. Recently I spent 5 days on drawing for long periods of time (we talk about min 5 hours in one go to max 12 hours long crunch) and not once did my hand bother me.
Here is a list of twenty dialogue prompts! Thank you everyone for contributing!
“Hey man, remember that one time you almost destroyed the country?” “Yeah bro, that was wild.”
“The shortest moments are the longest memories.”
“Are – did you – did you just BLOW UP THE MOON?” “You said it was irritating.”
“You know, when you said you were pregnant, I honestly expected our child to be…you know.”
“We celebrate now, we may not see tomorrow.”
“For the last time: I’ve met the devil and you’re not him!”
“Sure, let me just..lie down here”
“Dont cry for me. Celebrate over our legacy.”
“How could you be so selfish?!” “I learnt from the best.”
“Pineapple /really/ doesn’t belong on pizza.” “Good thing this isn’t for you then.”
“You are one in a million” “Cool, where can I meet another 7000 of me?”
“You know what saddens me the most? The fact that when we both go back to our timelines, we won’t be able to befriend eachother again. Hell, I don’t even know if we’ll be the same people!”
“Hi, I’m the Grim Reaper, and this is Jackass”
“Just because I fight on the side of the angels, don’t make the mistake of thinking I am one.”
“dude, I think your whole ‘im Steve I eat people’ thing is getting kind of old.”
“You worked for my uncle for 15 years, and he never once asked you to deal with a body?”
“Bruh, I don’t think possessing people is good for you”
“I leave you alone for one minute and now we have the king of hell, several cats and a large goat in our living room. What the hell were you trying to do?”
“What even *is* the right amount of eyes, Karen? You tell me.”
“How can you just leave me here, covered in orange juice and surrounded by your old victims?“
PSA to all you fantasy writers because I have just had a truly frustrating twenty minutes talking to someone about this: it’s okay to put mobility aids in your novel and have them just be ordinary.
Like. Super okay.
I don’t give a shit if it’s high fantasy, low fantasy or somewhere between the lovechild of Tolkein meets My Immortal. It’s okay to use mobility devices in your narrative. It’s okay to use the word “wheelchair”. You don’t have to remake the fucking wheel. It’s already been done for you.
And no, it doesn’t detract from the “realism” of your fictional universe in which you get to set the standard for realism. Please don’t try to use that as a reason for not using these things.
There is no reason to lock the disabled people in your narrative into towers because “that’s the way it was”, least of all in your novel about dragons and mermaids and other made up creatures. There is no historical realism here. You are in charge. You get to decide what that means.
Also:
“Depiction of Chinese philosopher Confucius in a wheelchair, dating to ca. 1680. The artist may have been thinking of methods of transport common in his own day.”
“The earliest records of wheeled furniture are an inscription found on a stone slate in China and a child’s bed depicted in a frieze on a Greek vase, both dating between the 6th and 5th century BCE.[2][3][4][5]The first records of wheeled seats being used for transporting disabled people date to three centuries later in China; the Chinese used early wheelbarrows to move people as well as heavy objects. A distinction between the two functions was not made for another several hundred years, around 525 CE, when images of wheeled chairs made specifically to carry people begin to occur in Chinese art.[5]”
“In 1655,Stephan Farffler, a 22 year old paraplegic watchmaker, built the world’s first self-propelling chair on a three-wheel chassis using a system of cranks and cogwheels.[6][3] However, the device had an appearance of a hand bike more than a wheelchair since the design included hand cranks mounted at the front wheel.[2]
The invalid carriage or Bath chair brought the technology into more common use from around 1760.[7]
In 1887, wheelchairs (“rolling chairs”) were introduced to Atlantic City so invalid tourists could rent them to enjoy the Boardwalk. Soon, many healthy tourists also rented the decorated “rolling chairs” and servants to push them as a show of decadence and treatment they could never experience at home.[8]
In 1933 Harry C. Jennings, Sr. and his disabled friend Herbert Everest, both mechanical engineers, invented the first lightweight, steel, folding, portable wheelchair.[9] Everest had previously broken his back in a mining accident. Everest and Jennings saw the business potential of the invention and went on to become the first mass-market manufacturers of wheelchairs. Their “X-brace” design is still in common use, albeit with updated materials and other improvements. The X-brace idea came to Harry from the men’s folding “camp chairs / stools”, rotated 90 degrees, that Harry and Herbert used in the outdoors and at the mines.[citation needed]
“But Joy, how do I describe this contraption in a fantasy setting that wont make it seem out of place?”
“It was a chair on wheels, which Prince FancyPants McElferson propelled forwards using his arms to direct the motion of the chair.”
“It was a chair on wheels, which Prince EvenFancierPants McElferson used to get about, pushed along by one of his companions or one of his many attending servants.”
“But it’s a high realm magical fantas—”
“It was a floating chair, the hum of magical energy keeping it off the ground casting a faint glow against the cobblestones as {CHARACTER} guided it round with expert ease, gliding back and forth.”
“But it’s a stempunk nov—”
“Unlike other wheelchairs he’d seen before, this one appeared to be self propelling, powered by the gasket of steam at the back, and directed by the use of a rudder like toggle in the front.”
Give. Disabled. Characters. In. Fantasy. Novels. Mobility. Aids.
If you can spend 60 pages telling me the history of your world in innate detail down to the formation of how magical rocks were formed, you can god damn write three lines in passing about a wheelchair.
Signed, your editor who doesn’t have time for this ableist fantasy realm shit.
If your fantasy setting is having trouble with things like “What other cultures exist in this universe and how do they get on?” or “How do diabled people live?” or “How’s gender work here?” without sounding like Your Conservative Aunt Edna That You Really Wish You Didn’t Have To Be Nice To At Thanksgiving, it’s a good sign that you need to go back, not to the drawing board, but to yourself and your real world, and think real hard about how you’re handling those things in real life.
It’ll do you and your writing a literal world of good.
Okay but like
Do we have to limit ourselves to wheelchairs?
Or could we have like, different kinds of mobility aids? Like we don’t have to remake the fucking wheel, but what if we want to? Like a world with cool magic should have tons of magical ways to help people get around. Same thing with technology. Like sure wheelchairs are cool but so is a guy with like, a fully controllable robot leg suit, or a paraplegic wizard who just flies around sitting on a magic cloud they’ve made solid with their spells.
Absolutely not! I used the example of wheelchairs because the person I was talking to decided to tell me that mobility aids were historically inaccurate and therefore had no place in their historical fantasy novel setting. So I went the entire hell out of my way to drag them behind historically accurate wheelchairs. I actually have another post circulating at the moment that talks about the use of other aids and how magic and other things could work as a mobility aid. I just switched to mobile so I can’t link, but if you scroll my blog you’ll find it.
This is all I’ve been talking about today because it’s all anyone will let me talk about lol.
I would caution against “magical healing,” though. This is one of the few parts of The Hunger Games that really pissed me off. Katniss loses her hearing for a couple of days, and those couple of days suck, but guess what! Capitol makes it all better! Harry Potter suffers from similar issues–Jo Rowling has said we don’t see things like wizards in wheelchairs because they use magic to “fix things like that.”
It’s okay to let your character struggle even in the face of magic, and even to use it for worldbuilding. Just off the top of my head I asked myself “so how would I handle a character with a missing arm in an LOTR-style world?”, and had two answers: 1) the dwarves could make a serviceable, well-crafted prosthetic with somewhat limited mobility (since dwarves don’t wield magic), or elves could sing one out of wood–but while lithe and beautiful, it would always be at greater risk for breaking, because magical wood is still wood.
It’s tempting to show how ~*~*~awesome~*~*~ magic is in your world by “fixing” disabled characters. RESIST. Let them be disabled and let them have assistive devices. (And if you ever need a good excuse for why the characters can’t just “fix it” via magic, go ask a Fullmetal Alchemist fan to explain the law of equivalent exchange. I’m not kidding. I don’t even go there and I know the backstory into the magical parts of the world is INSANELY well-done and can be a great guide to setting up your own magical rules.)
As I literally just posted a Bureauverse short story about wizards and addiction. *fingerguns* I could not agree with you more.
This masterlist is a masterlist of words that you may use alongside the word very, very being one of the most common words that are used when writing. I hope this helps you as much as it helps me in our writing seem more sophisticated and unique.
A:
Very accurate – exact Very afraid – fearful Very angry – furious Very annoying – exasperating
B:
Very bad – atrocious Very beautiful – exquisite Very big – immense Very boring – dull Very bright – luminous Very busy – swamped
C:
Very calm – serene Very careful – cautious Very cheap – stingy Very clean – spotless Very clear – obvious Very clever – intelligent Very cold – freezing Very colourful – vibrant Very competitive – cutthroat Very complete – comprehensive Very confused – perplexed Very conventional – conservative Very creative – innovative Very crowded – bustling Very cute – adorable
D:
Very dangerous – perilous Very dear – cherished Very deep – profound Very depressed – despondent Very detailed – meticulous Very different – disparate Very difficult – arduous Very dirty – filthy Very dry – arid Very dull – tedious
E:
Very eager – keen Very easy – effortless Very empty – desolate Very excited – thrilled Very exciting – exhilarating Very expensive – costly
F:
Very fancy – lavish Very fast – swift Very fat – obese Very friendly – amiable Very frightened – alarmed Very frightening – terrifying Very funny – hilarious
G:
Very glad – overjoyed Very good – excellent Very great – terrific
H:
Very happy – ecstatic Very hard – difficult Very hard-to-find – rare Very heavy – leaden Very high – soaring Very hot – sweltering Very huge – colossal Very hungry – ravenous Very hurt – battered
I:
Very important – crucial Very intelligent – brilliant Very interesting – captivating
J:
K:
L:
Very large – huge Very lazy – indolent Very little – tiny Very lively – vivacious Very long – extensive Very long-term – enduring Very loose – slack Very loud – thunderous Very loved – adored
M:
Very mean – cruel Very messy – slovenly
N:
Very neat – immaculate Very necessary – essential Very nervous – apprehensive Very nice – kind Very noisy – deafening
O:
Very often – frequently Very old – ancient Very old-fashioned – archaic Very open – transparent
P:
Very painful – excruciating Very pale – ashen Very perfect – flawless Very poor – destitute Very powerful – compelling Very pretty – beautiful
Q:
Very quick – rapid Very quiet – hushed
R:
Very rainy – pouring Very rich – wealthy
S:
Very sad – sorrowful Very scared – petrified Very scary – chilling Very serious – grave Very sharp – keen Very shiny – gleaming Very short – brief Very shy – timid Very simple – basic Very skinny – skeletal Very slow – sluggish Very small – petite Very smart – intelligent Very smelly – pungent Very smooth – sleek Very soft – downy Very sorry – apologetic Very special – exceptional Very strong – forceful Very stupid – idiotic Very sure – certain Very sweet – thoughtful
T:
Very talented – gifted Very tall – towering Very tasty – delicious Very thirsty – parched Very tight – constricting Very tiny –minuscule Very tired – exhausted
U:
Very ugly – hideous Very unhappy – miserable Very upset – distraught
V:
W:
Very warm – hot Very weak – frail Very well-to-do – wealthy Very wet – soaked Very wide – expansive Very willing – eager Very windy – blustery Very wise – sage Very worried – distressed
X:
Y:
Z:
A/N: If you know of anymore words I can add please message me.
Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.
Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But – I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”
“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”
The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”
“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”
Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.
“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”
“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”
“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”
“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”
“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the
earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost
before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath
your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.
“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to
rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”
“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
i literally can’t sleep alone anymore so i’ve shown up at your door in my pyjamas, can we have one more nap together, please?
we promised to stay friends but we’re doing the same stuff we did when we were a couple and i don’t wanna point it out because i don’t want it to stop
listen i know i can’t just show up at your apartment at six in the morning but i need coffee and no one makes it like you do
we broke up after i left and moved away and months later i find out you rushed to the airport to stop me but you were too late
you keep calling me over to get rid of spiders from your apartment and i’m pretending i don’t know you’re not afraid of them at all because i miss you too
we keep showing up at all the same places separately because we’ve always had similar interests
cop!au i’ve been undercover for months/years and i know i told you not to wait for me but i’m still in love with you and it’s killing me
or, i fell in love with you while i was undercover and i know you’re mad at me for lying but i have to go back to my old life (and i want you to be in it)
i know we’ve been broken up for a while but i still have those concert tickets and you’re the only person i want to share this with
i found the ring when i was moving my stuff out of your apartment and now everything makes sense
are you?? sabotaging?? my dates?!?!?
i’ve seen you hanging around my apartment and i thought it was because you missed me, turns out you’ve been using my wifi you asshole
i know you can’t cook for shit so i’ve been bringing you dinner every night, just, y’know, to keep you alive
i kissed you goodbye by accident – old habits die hard okay?!?!
roadtrip au where we need to save gas money so we take a long, awkward, tension-filled car ride
instead of dividing up the CD’s, let’s play a drinking game to determine who gets what (it may or may not end in sex)
i was so sleep-deprived after the night shift that i climbed into bed with you (and you just rolled with it)
you’re my emergency contact and i’ve been in an accident so you drop everything to come to the hospital
soon to be divorced couple obnoxiously painting the walls wacky colours every time the other paints over it
you’re pretending we’re still together because my relatives will disprove of the break up so you’re being all sweet it’s reminding me of why i fell in love with you in the first place
we bumped into each other in the street and you were grinning like a cocky asshole the whole time so i stalked off only to realise i’m wearing your shirt
the most implausible thing about superhero movies is that these guys make their own suits, like seriously those toxic chemicals did NOT give you the ability to sew stretch knits, do you even own a serger
I feel like there’s this little secret place in the middle of some seedy New York business neighborhood, back room, doesn’t even have a sign on the door, but within three days of using their powers in public or starting a pattern of vigilanteism, every budding superhero or supervillain gets discreetly handed a scrap of paper with that address written on it.
Inside there’s this little tea table with three chairs, woodstove, minifridge, work table, sewing machines, bolts and bolts of stretch fabrics and maybe some kevlar, and two middle-aged women with matching wedding rings and sketchbooks.
And they invite you to sit down, and give you tea and cookies, and start making sketches of what you want your costume to look like, and you get measured, and told to come back in a week, and there’s your costume, waiting for you.
The first one is free. They tell you the price of subsequent ones, and it’s based on what you can afford. You have no idea how they found out about your financial situation. You try it on, and it fits perfectly, and you have no idea how they managed that without measuring you a whole lot more thoroughly than they did.
They ask you to pose for a picture with them. For their album, they say. The camera is old, big, the sort film camera artists hunt down at antique stores and pay thousands for, and they come pose on either side of you and one of them clicks the camera remotely by way of one of those squeeze-things on a cable that you’ve seen depicted from olden times. That one (the tall one, you think, though she isn’t really, thin and reminiscent of a Greek marble statue) pulls the glass plate from the camera and scurries off to the basement, while the other one (shorter, round, all smiles, her shiny black hair pulled up into a bun) brings out a photo album to show you their work.
Inside it is … everyone. Superheroes. Supervillains. Household names and people you don’t recognize. She flips through pages at random, telling you little bits about the guy in the purple spangly costume, the lady in red and black, the mysterious cloaked figure whose mask reveals one eye. As she pages back, the costumes start looking really convincingly retro, and her descriptions start having references to the Space Race, the Depression, the Great War.
The other lady comes up, holding your picture. You’re sort of surprised to find it’s in color, and then you realize all the others were, too, even the earliest ones. There you are, and you look like a superhero. You look down at yourself, and feel like a superhero. You stand up straighter, and the costume suddenly fits a tiny bit better, and they both smile proudly.
*
The next time you come in, it’s because the person who’s probably going to be your nemesis has shredded your costume. You bring the agreed-upon price, and you bake cupcakes to share with them. There’s a third woman there, and you don’t recognize her, but the way she moves is familiar somehow, and the air seems to sparkle around her, on the edge of frost or the edge of flame. She’s carrying a wrapped brown paper package in her arms, and she smiles at you and moves to depart. You offer her a cupcake for the road.
The two seamstresses go into transports of delight over the cupcakes. You drink tea, and eat cookies and a piece of a pie someone brought around yesterday. They examine your costume and suggest a layer of kevlar around the shoulders and torso, since you’re facing off with someone who uses claws.
They ask you how the costume has worked, contemplate small design changes, make sketches. They tell you a story about their second wedding that has you falling off the chair in tears, laughing so hard your stomach hurts. They were married in 1906, they say, twice. They took turns being the man. They joke about how two one-ring ceremonies make one two-ring ceremony, and figure that they each had one wedding because it only counted when they were the bride.
They point you at three pictures on the wall. A short round man with an impressive beard grins next to a taller, white-gowned goddess; a thin man in top hat and tails looks adoringly down at a round and beaming bride; two women, in their wedding dresses, clasp each other close and smile dazzlingly at the camera. The other two pictures show the sanctuaries of different churches; this one was clearly taken in this room.
There’s a card next to what’s left of the pie. Elaborate silver curlicues on white, and it originally said “Happy 10th Anniversary,” only someone has taken a Sharpie and shoehorned in an extra 1, so it says “Happy 110th.” The tall one follows your gaze, tells you, morning wedding and evening wedding, same day. She picks up the card and sets it upright; you can see the name signed inside: Magneto.
You notice that scattered on their paperwork desk are many more envelopes and cards, and are glad you decided to bring the cupcakes.
*
When you pick up your costume the next time, it’s wrapped up in paper and string. You don’t need to try it on; there’s no way it won’t be perfect. You drink tea, eat candies like your grandmother used to make when you were small, talk about your nights out superheroing and your nemesis and your calculus homework and how today’s economy compares with the later years of the Depression.
When you leave, you meet a man in the alleyway. He’s big, and he radiates danger, but his eyes shift from you to the package in your arms, and he nods slightly and moves past you. You’re not the slightest bit surprised when he goes into the same door you came out of.
*
The next time you visit, there’s nothing wrong with your costume but you think it might be wise to have a spare. And also, you want to thank them for the kevlar. You bring artisan sodas, the kind you buy in glass bottles, and they give you stir fry, cooked on the wood-burning stove in a wok that looks a century old.
There’s no way they could possibly know that your day job cut your hours, but they give you a discount that suits you perfectly. Halfway through dinner, a cinderblock of a man comes in the door, and the shorter lady brings up an antique-looking bottle of liquor to pour into his tea. You catch a whiff and it makes your eyes water. The tall one sees your face, and grins, and says, Prohibition.
You’re not sure whether the liquor is that old, or whether they’ve got a still down in the basement with their photography darkroom. Either seems completely plausible. The four of you have a rousing conversation about the merits of various beverages over dinner, and then you leave him to do business with the seamstresses.
*
It’s almost a year later, and you’re on your fifth costume, when you see the gangly teenager chase off a trio of would-be purse-snatchers with a grace of movement that can only be called superhuman.
You take pen and paper from one of your multitude of convenient hidden pockets, and scribble down an address. With your own power and the advantage of practice, it’s easy to catch up with her, and the work of an instant to slip the paper into her hand.
*
A week or so later, you’re drinking tea and comparing Supreme Court Justices past and present when she comes into the shop, and her brow furrows a bit, like she remembers you but can’t figure out from where. The ladies welcome her, and you push the tray of cookies towards her and head out the door.
In the alleyway you meet that same giant menacing man you’ve seen once before. He’s got a bouquet of flowers in one hand, the banner saying Happy Anniversary, and a brown paper bag in the other.
Appreciate the silence. You feel it in your ears. Il te remplit les oreilles, jusqu’au plus profond de tes os. Il est là, reposant…présent. Tel un sinueux cours d’eau frais et tiède sus le soleil. Bzzz… It buzzes in your ears. Hhh, Hhh, silence is there! Silence is there! Silence is…! Partout. Uniforme De coton. autour de tes membres et de ta tête. Dooooooooom… You flicker your fingers at your left ear – mais sa chape se referme aussitôt. You try counting the beatings of your heart! Squish your ears, shakes your head, cry a little! … mais rien ne s’entend. Heaving,
You Feel The Panic,
il te bâillonne,
il t’enserre,
il te pénètre,
il te transperce!
.
Your hands creep towards the light, you clutch your only salvation and bring it to your ears. The familiar shine of the screen hurts your eyes. You click on the song.
Her magnificent voice pierces through you, sadness embraces you strongly and surely. It saves you – mais ce ne sera qu’un court instant de jouissance durant ta pénible nuit d’isolation et de désarroi.
I always await the Sun but can never live under His light without wishing I could fall back into the Paradis Sombre of the night.
Your soul is hunting me and telling me That everything is fine But I wish I was dead
Every time I close my eyes It’s like a dark paradise Lana Del Rey – Dark Paradise
Plume de Lynx 