Crow Witch Detective Agency

🥀 just vibes

[phantom-threaded]

Frankenstein (2025) + trivia

[itssquidbian]

romance is a type of friendship and im sick of people pretending like they're two seperate categories. your romantic partner is Supposed to also be your friend like at the very least why are we pitting romance AGAINST friendship when they r intertwined???? romantic partners are also friends and u can have romance with ur friends stop acting like these bitches are seperate forces

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

I would actually approach this from the opposite direction and assert that friendship is a kind of love. Indeed, that’s how it was conceptualized in ancient Greece - ’philia’ translates as love, friendship or affection.

The trouble is (IMHO) that we as a culture have fetisized romantic-erotic love to the point it has obscured what an enormous and all-encompassing force love is. Love as friendship. Love as community. Love as selflessness. Love for self. Love for beauty. Love for learning. Love for the complexity of the world and the fullness of human experience. Love for life.

[yonathas-blog]

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

MEWD

[japaneseaesthetics]

Woodblock print, by Hiroshige, called “New Year’s Eve Foxfires at the Changing Tree”, 1857, Japan. According to Japanese legend, all the foxes of the surrounding provinces (magical creatures, these) would gather on the last day of the year at a particular tree near Oji Inari Shrine. They would change their dress for a visit to the shrine, where they would be given orders for the coming year. On the way, the animals would emit distinctive flames - kitsunebi - by which local farmers were able to predict the success of the crops for the coming year.

The word foxfires, a literal translation of kitsunebi, is used to explain strange lights at night, ascribed to the fox. The fox is believed to possess supernatural powers and was a common sight in the city of Edo, especially in the Oji district.  Text by Martha Stratienko

[mylittleteenageideas]

a warm cup of tea 🍵

[thekimonogallery]

 "Japanese Lady with a Fan" A painting completed in 1894 by George Henry.

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

Love this one! The colors, the not-knowing their facial expression. If memory serves, it’s in Ulster Museum in Belfast.

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

(pic by me, quote from Brian Selznick’s The Marvels)

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

Pic from Lago Maggiore, Italy

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

I’m not the type to get burned out or depressed.

I’m the type that hobbles through Hell on one leg, with hair on fire, and emerges from the other side complaining why it had to be so friggin hot in there.

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

Bukowski or Fall Out Boy?

I have a little game for you! Are these titles for a.) Charles Bukowski's poetry collections OR b.) Fall Out Boy songs? I promise you there's five of each on the list: 

Love Is a Dog from Hell

Disloyal Order of Water Buffaloes 

The People Look Like Flowers At Last

Of All the Gin Joints in All the World

You're Crashing, but You're No Wave

My Heart Is the Worst Kind of Weapon

The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills

You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense

I've Got a Dark Alley and a Bad Idea That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth 

Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit

You CANNOT tell me they don't have the same exact energy.

[homunculus-argument]

Character dynamic concept: It's hard to tell whether they're fighting or flirting. Probably both. Neither of them knows, either. Because despite of being brilliant, they're both very stupid.

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

I’m one of these characters.

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

Weird shit that I do, part XYZ: Been re-reading the Secret History, but in sync with the seasons. So I’ve referred to April as “finally murder time”.

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

And even though I’d lived more than 30 winters, I always seemed to forget how much I loved the evening light stretching on and on already in May; the buds on the tips of branches, so solitary, yet so innumerable; and that first bite of a fresh strawberry that bursts through your chest like a childhood memory.

I have never liked spring per se. The sudden sun is merciless on all the dust and dried skin. Melting snow leaves in its wake rifts of gravel, candy papers and shit, and my throat is sore all the time. But I like the feeling of life moving forward. It’s like the end of April always pries my chilled fingers off everything I’ve held onto for too long and pushes me back-first into the green miracle of summer. “See?” it says with the kind of coldness only beautiful women can master, “”There was life here all along. You tend to forget.”

It was in April I’d once read for my university entrance exams. In April my lover of ten years left me for his new acquaintance. In April I defended my doctoral dissertation and booked one-way tickets to the other side of the world. April, for me, always ends in an emptiness that is at once vast and miraculous and terrifying like the sea or the sky. And there is nothing I can say to refuse it.