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"But who prays for Satan? Who, in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it most? - M.T

[danhumphrey]

i know it’s all just jokes but i think we should fr stop acting like the people around us don’t have inner lives. “npc” becoming an acceptable term to call people is very disturbing to me like genuinely idc if it’s not that deep…. plus the new phenomena of calling things you find no substance in “coworker music/movies/etc” like i get the conceit of the joke but i think when you refer to other people in that way consistently, you start to genuinely become convinced that people are just there to fill the background of your life, that they don’t have hobbies or families or lives beyond what you perceive, and that’s so bad. that’s sooooo bad to think of people

[whitepeopletwitter]

[queen-mihai]

Reblogging this again now because DON’T GODDAMN FORGET

[soft-lovely]

elaborate book covers

[ahead]

[miumiugirl-deactivated20240416]

coach ss18

[jinxproof]

Abbey Champion Self Service n°54 ph. Bryan Liston

[ahuara-deactivated20250412]

Amal El-Mohtar & Max Gladstone This Is How You Lose the Time War

[Text ID: I want to met you in every place I ever loved. End ID]

[williamcrisafi]

[stolenchapstick]

i have to remind myself everyday

[linneanirell]

Some days, I pity you. Other days, I fight with myself to understand you. Most days, I still love you. Yesterday, I forgave you. Yet, tomorrow, I wish to forget. 

Today’s poem, tomorrow, by Linnéa Nirell.

❧ig

[whispersobliviate]

Lili Marberg as Salome by Leopold Schmutzler(details)

[siyahalbatros]

Source unknown. Via Randomitus.

[linneanirell]

A snippet from an older poem of mine ❧  

Please linger at the corners of my life by Linnéa Nirell

❧ig

[lesthetiquedelinventaire]

[galeru]

May I lay down in this field. I might forget where I came from or where I was going in the first place. Flowers might start to grow from within and perhaps I’ll stay here forever.

[galeru]

The Art of Staying Sane by Joseph Barth, 1948.

❧ig

[linneanirell]

I must have looked lovely during the days you quietly said your goodbyes. I realise now, what I thought was love within your eyes, was grief, and the dreams you created, the tales you told, was you living them for the very last time. I was caught up within those dreams. Like a child, I believed the illusion of it all. With your words, and with your hands, you placed steppingstones in front of me, and I walked upon them, not realising they were made out of nothing, and the plunge was indeed far. My heart was beating so incredibly loud that I was unable to recognise that yours had stopped. When did it begin to wither? First you were frozen in time. There was no before nor after. Everything was so still and you looked beautiful. I held onto you until you became solid. For how long has your body grown stale? I wish I would have known that your heart was ebbing. You carried your disease so well. Only now, when worms and maggots occupy your eyes, can I truly see. How did I look when I smiled at you those days? Do you remember? How did my warm skin feel against yours? My rosy lips? My tender hands as I brushed your hair from your eyes? Does my voice still echo within your ears, alongside those promises you made? Like a whisper? Can dead hearts even feel anything at all, after having withered? 

Today’s poem  ❧  

End to End by Linnéa Nirell

❧ ig