milena

she, 21, occasionally sharing my cyanotype art

[innerchildabortionclinic]

your cat was an honor to see in the window

[strangercoded]

ethel cain in hamburg, 1/07/2026

@tankhall

[thereisnocontextonlyzule]

For a show that is completely ridiculous most of the time, Knot actually contains so much commentary on the commodification of the bodies of those who are capable of bearing children

From everything Phatsa is experiencing and is afraid of because of being a Pure Omega to Ongsa’s insecurities because he’s a Beta, everything in this latest episode really just hits you in the face with the overly reproduction focused reality of the world and as sad as it makes me, it’s such an important thing to talk about

[red-hibiscus]

Nakhin my beloved. Keep doing whatever you're doing. You're doing great sweetie.

[beingknownthewayyoushould]

lone man rowing.

[beingknownthewayyoushould]

A few blossoms printed on paper.

[beingknownthewayyoushould]

Me vs not making everything about Ethel Cain but guys, this is literally their 'House in Nebraska'..

[pmamtraveller]

Mammal in a Sunday Dress, by Georgina M. Cox, 2026

[originalaccountname]

Mammal in a Sunday Dress explores the uneasy relationship between femininity, civilisation, and the animal body. At first glance, the figure appears modest and withdrawn. Her posture is composed, her gaze seemingly lowered towards her bare feet, recalling the conventions of nineteenth-century portraiture where women were often depicted as passive objects of observation. Yet as the viewer moves closer, the illusion collapses. Her eyes are not lowered at all. She is looking directly back. The delayed eye contact transforms the encounter. The viewer approaches believing they are safely observing a woman; instead, they realise they have been observed themselves. The work refuses the traditional power dynamic of portraiture, denying the comfort of anonymous spectatorship. Looking becomes a reciprocal act. For Cox, the painting considers humanity's persistent desire to separate itself from the rest of the animal kingdom. The title quietly undermines this distinction. A "mammal" is not another creature—it is us. The Sunday dress, rich with cultural associations of femininity, morality, and respectability, becomes an attempt to distinguish ourselves from nature. Yet clothing cannot alter biology. Beneath lace and ritual remains the same vulnerable animal body. The work also reflects on the historical relationship between women and nature. Across art, religion, and philosophy, women have repeatedly been positioned as closer to instinct, emotion, reproduction, and the body itself, while men have been aligned with reason, culture, and civilisation. Mammal in a Sunday Dress does not reject this comparison. Instead, it questions why proximity to nature has so often been treated as something lesser. Chiaroscuro isolates the figure within darkness, allowing the luminous dress to symbolise the performance of civilisation while the bare feet quietly return the body to the earth. Neither is presented as more truthful than the other. The painting exists in the tension between performance and instinct, refinement and biology. Mammal in a Sunday Dress ultimately asks a simple but unsettling question: if every layer of culture were stripped away, what would remain? Not a king. Not a saint. Not a gentleman or a lady. Only another mammal, looking back.

source

[tankhall]

i love my ipad

[dogpuppy]

[pointlesscandies]

The common cold is the most powerful force in the Thai bl world. For most people a cold is uncomfortable but if you're a character in a Thai bl I am so sorry because you're gonna be on your deathbed. It's been 5 minutes since you first coughed and you're passing out in the hallway, you’re unconscious, you're helpless, you don't know what's happening. Why do you have absolutely no memory of the last 72 hours? Oh right because you went outside in the rain for six seconds and caught an insta-cold and now you're in your crushes' house having nightmares of a past life. The only thing standing between a bl boy with a cold and the sweet embrace of the grave is a bowl of room temperature water and a washcloth

[tankhall]

In 2018, I wrote down a passing thought in my cheap little leather-bound journal I was writing a collection of songs in that would go on to become Preacher’s Daughter. “If I finish this album the way it needs to be finished, it will change my life, and it will leave a hole in my heart for years that I won’t know how to fill.” I’ve always had a knack for eerily accurate self-premonition. Preacher’s Daughter certainly left a hole, and it certainly changed my life, but only on the outside. All the songs I wrote for it were about characters, a girl in a “faraway” place living her “faraway” life, albeit still parallel to mine, but wholly detached from me. Willoughby was doomed to be closer to home. I wrote Nettles and Waco the same week, the first week I spent in the Alabama house where I would finish Preacher’s Daughter after so many years of trying. The difference was I wrote them about me. There were no characters at first; it was just me. In fact, I wrote them in an attempt to hide from Ethel Cain for a moment. She eventually devoured those little ditties too, of course, as she always does. In hindsight, I’m glad I had to share them with her. I couldn’t have carried the full weight of them myself, I know that now. My premonitions were out in full force; over the course of the next few years, I’d script out my own life in the same morbid fashion I always have. Maybe it was a lesson in not training my eye downward as I’ve spent the majority of my life doing.

I had 3 weeks for the holidays between mixing and submitting Perverts and jumping back into the maw of taming an unfinished Willoughby Tucker. I spent the first three months of 2025 on probation, unable to go much of anywhere, awake only when the sun was down. I’d never mixed a record of that magnitude, which was daunting with deadlines immovable. I remember 9am on my 27th birthday rolling around after being awake for hours whittling away at mixes, announcing the album and entire tour before going back to mix an album that still wasn’t done. I’ve never cried so much finishing a record, and that was before it was even out. Combining your Saturn return, your first shot at true love, and the longest tour of your life is something I would never recommend to anyone. It was the death of both ego and everything around it. I couldn’t be more grateful. Never in my life have I been so turned inside out, so uprooted and unraveled. Looking back, I needed it more than anything.

Thank you to everyone who listened. Ethel Cain and Willoughby Tucker will always be my children, my burnt offerings, what I leave in the storm. Sometimes I wish it didn’t have to be this way, but I also fear it’s the only way. Ethel Cain, Willoughby Tucker, I really will always love you. I feel as though in this moment here, saying goodbye, you and I are closer than ever. I hope you can forgive me.

[poetry-protest-pornography]

[fandomfairyuniverse]

He found a way for ongsa to know what his pheromones smell like shut the hell up

[natdeviantrat]

sorry but if your partner has reason to think you're pregnant and instead of mentioning it to you and maybe scheduling a test or doctor's appointment he just gets all clingy and conspires with the staff

prayers for phatsa cause i'd simply never trust him again

[littleblackraincloudofcourse]

if all that attention and care was just because he'd missed phatsa and wanted to make him feel loved, it would be really cute. but since it's all for some child that he might be carrying, nakhun is just pissing me off.

[byemambo]

Bottom eyes go crazy.

THEE TEERAWAT AS ONGSA

Knot (2026) | 1.6