t a x m a n

I think human consciousness is a tragic misstep in evolution. We became too self-aware, nature created an aspect of nature separate from itself. We are creatures that should not exist by natural law. # cxhle

[geniusrunsinmyfamily-blog]

                      Ellen’s brows shot up at the question. She would have guessed he’d be used to people knowing his name by now — and that went for Hart, too. If she wasn’t looking at their faces on the television, she was reading up on them in the newspaper. Whether they liked it or not, the two were becoming quite the local celebrities (though that wasn’t saying much for a town that looked and sounded all but dead.

                                ❝ Oh, it isn’t uncommon to know who you are these days.  ❞

[cxhle]

                                   There was still a disconnect from the relative fame he found in the local community and the normalcy he dictated his daily life with. Not owning a television set himself, Rust was ignorant of the amount of airtime his achievement had gotten -- his and Marty's names practically becoming the headline for the resolved Dora Lange case and ensuring shoot-out. He had noticed tentative eyes follow him everywhere, a few fleeting glances and conversations arising in the aisles of the grocery stores and in the traveled land. But he spend most of his time alone or at work, so the effect this woman's words held was still profound.

He spoke with his accent thick, emotionless words echoing a thought that was unusual for the moment but reeked of cliche ideas.

                                   ❝ I was just doin' the job.❞

[hbotruedetective]

[cxhle]

ＵＲＬ  ＣＨＡＮＧＥ

xnihilist → cxhle

[so-lou]

So Death created time to grow the things that it would kill.

Rust Cohle - True Detective (via so-lou)

[mrsmaggiehart]

Maggie moved through the kitchen, cleaning everything in sight. That was the only thing that kept her sane for the past week. Movement. Mindless tasks. Anything to keep her mind off of Marty moving out and Rust. Believe it or not, the latter was more confusing. It was a mistake she still regretted, but at the same time, it perplexed her. 

Glancing up at the clock, she realized Audrey still wasn't home, and it was half an hour past curfew. How could she blame her with all that was going on? The backlash from the mess that she and Marty had created seemed to always fall on them, and it wasn't fair. 

A knock on the front door interrupted her thoughts, and there was a tinge of worry that it had something to do with Audrey. She quickly moved to the door, but stopped when she heard the voice. 

They had to face each other eventually. Now was as good a time as any. 

After opening the door, she studied him for a long moment. It was more than obvious he'd been drinking again. He looked even worse than the first night they'd met. 

"It's late." She informed him softly. "You okay?"

[cxhle]

Rust shared a similar silent sentiment to the confusion and perplexion that spelled through Maggie's hazy thoughts. Though the drunken sex had been roused into the destruction of his job and the loss of his only friend, the bitterness he felt was not directed to Maggie herself -- but; rather, to the siren that had seduced him in a weakened state, a desperate woman pulled to the extremes in order to keep a lawless husband in line.

Or maybe it was the beer that had dulled his emotions. He hadn't found a completely somber moment in days, and the blurred perceptions of the world were starting to blend together into a single, amorphous entity. There was a dull void of self-pity where his anger should have been.

He looked back at Maggie for a moment, his dizzying stature swaying as if tasseled to the earth on a pair of stilts. But he felt hardly tasseled at all, as if the world was only a dream that he had awoken into, and he was only floating in the oaken summer air.

        ❝ I'm fine. ❞ 

The response was atypical for him, a juxtaposition from the norm. Adversely, the words he spoke were also far from the truth. It was obvious in his slurred speech.

        ❝ We need to talk. ❞ 

He spoke the words that he had said only moments before once again, stressing their meaning like one might chant a mantra. 

[cxhle]

open

[melodiouslay-blog]

                                   Ophelia has never really seen the appeal of smoking. It may look attractive to some, she can see that. The smoke filling the air, the stick hanging from parted lips. It’s a sight, for sure. But, the smell— The smell leaks from one’s pores, and dissolves into their clothing. It’s never ending, and it must burn — She’s sure it burns.

                           “ Uhm —”

                                   There’s a distinct pause, as she tries to gather her thoughts; his vulgar language seeping into her bones. She shakes.

                          “ I was saying that.. My friend, she’s been missing for quite a few days now. Her folks think she might have run off, skipped town. But, I don’t think so.”

                                 Crossing lean arms over her chest, shoulders rise, and she shrugs. The toe of her shoe digs into the ground below her, while blue eyes continue to stare at his lit cigarette.

                                “ I just thought you might be able to help, is all.”

[cxhle]

                                   He didn't smoke for the asset of sexual appeal, or even for the aesthetic that is casted. He never let subsurface thoughts such as those lay any influence into his routine; rather, Rust's habit was a conscious jab at the futility of life -- a simple means of ending the much larger picture and slowly evaporating every year of existence into a single haze of self-destruction.

And each breath he exhumed was like the casting of energy out of his body, a grey flume of his grim soul being exorcised of its eternal demons.

                                   He now assumed his slight suspicion to be correct. The girl's friend was very likely a victim of the same malady that had infected Dora Lange and the Fontenot girl. There was no denying the similar circumstances that surrounded their disappearances; however, this one contained no body or evidence to suggest foul play that escaped the purely circumstantial.

                                   ❝ Plenty of girls skip town 'round these parts. ❞

His accent ran thick and deep, the words dulled with a quality of indifference but the curious tone left a void in the absence of emotion. Rust let the cigarette dangle in within his fingers, drooping slightly.

                                   ❝ -------- What makes her so different? ❞

[cxhle]

;

[wateraugustus-deactivated202104]

True Detective - 1x01 The Long Bright Dark

[reveurx-deactivated20140917]

"Then you shouldn’t have asked in the first place—-"

[cxhle]

                                      ❝ 'Guess I'd expected a better answer. ❞

[miiroir-deactivated20140820]

"You know, in the end, you’re going to die with  that thing in your mouth.”

[cxhle]

                                      ❝ And that wouldn't be at all unpleasing. ❞

[chameleonisms]

            “It weighs differently on your soul I suppose…              The bad kind is like a glue that’s stuck on you—              Makes your chest tight and gets everywhere,              Like your dreams, and certain situations…”            ”The good kind is like being freshly showered…              Or taking a breath of fresh air. You feel lighter              And it’s when you’re being true to yourself, and               Not doing things with the manipulation of others              playing puppeteer, doing things ‘cause they feel              right.”

[cxhle]

                                    ❝ There are all kinds of men in this world --                                         some of which have a very different concept                                         of what is right.                                                                      Like different kinds of darknesses.                                                                      So many, in fact, that I don't think                                                                      you can pin morality on a certain                                                                      set of feelings. It's too subjective                                                                      of an idea. ❞ 

[themistressincontrol-blog]

      "If we are a mistake, than do you believe we will be corrected soon? Fall off the face of existence? I assume the one who put us here would not wish to leave such a mistake to flourish”

[cxhle]

                                     ❝ Well-- that's assuming that there is some sort of god-like, omnipotent being watching over us. ❞ He cut his eyes sideways, a pause on his bitter lips. ❝ Personally, I think that notion's absurd. The very idea of a 'God' goes against every fundamental essence of science. ❞

[cxhle]

                                      ❝ So --- who the fuck are you suppose to be? ❞

[bertinelli]

[cxhle]

(count: 10)   Rust Cohle icons, True Detective. 2012 setting, taken from various episodes.

[nacholatkes-deactivated20151014]

let's do a weird headcanon thing.

[cxhle]

1. what they smell like: Beer, sweat, and cigarettes. It's a dark and musky odor with a slightly bitter finish. 2. how they sleep (sleeping position, schedule, etc): He doesn't sleep. He only dreams. Rust sleeps on his stomach, flattened out.  3. what music they enjoy: Country with rock influences as well as classics such as Johnny Cash. 4. how much time they spend getting ready every morning: Maybe five minutes. 5. their favorite thing to collect: Agony, misery, and self-hatred. He doesn't really collect anything, finding the prospect to be useless and just a part of commercial society. 6. left or right-handed: Right. 7. religion (if any): None. 8. favorite sport: He doesn't like sports. 9. favorite touristy thing to do when traveling: He doesn't often travel; although, he occasionally finds walking on the beach to be a peaceful experience. 10. favorite kind of weather: He likes it hot and hazy -- like that feeling of industrial heat coming off of the billowing smokestacks. 11. a weird/obscure fear they have: To die unremembered.

[antistar]

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