There Came to my Window, Illustration by Henriette Villebeek Le Mair

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There Came to my Window, Illustration by Henriette Villebeek Le Mair
i am in love with decadence and decay, so catch me dancing circles in a soiled edwardian wedding gown with the silk splitting at the seams, or walking to the drugstore in old furs and faded lace lingerie from the ‘70s. my closet is an ode to luxury that has lost its luster, like an old hollywood star fading into the 21st century, face blurring with age but her old grammy sits tarnished on the mantel.
in the age of fast fashion and blogging we are racing against time to stay fresh, but i say, to hell with your outlets and five dollar deals. give me organza and raw silk, tiaras missing diamonds, old prom dresses covered in cigarette ashes with that sickly peony scent lingering in the folds. i want to bleed for fashion, so please bury me in chanel.
I lived and worked in a lighthouse at a previous job. There was a thick line painted in a circle around the shack where the fog signal was kept. The line represented how close you could get to the fog signal without experiencing physical harm in the form of eardrums shattering or worse.
Even in the house it was LOUD. Probably the loudest thing I have ever experienced but at a normal, predictable interval. You would begin to time your sentences with little pauses with the rest of the lighthouse crew so you would talk like this while making your………..HORN…………. tea and then carry on talking because you knew when it would go off. It rattled the walls and the dishes in our cabinet.
At least one girl had died there. They kept photos of her everywhere “in honor of her sacrifice” because she had decided to take the winter watch alone and died in a storm where bounders the size of mini vans had been lifted out of the ocean and left scattered across the island, to say nothing of the ice chunks. People weren’t allowed to be alone on the watch after that.
One day a dead moose washed up on shore and it took my entire crew all day but we managed to rig up a line to hang it up to dry because we thought having a moose skeleton in the house would really spice the living room up a bit. It did. Weird shit happens when six of you are left alone, like ALONE ALONE, no cell reception, no wifi, just a radio to contact the real world and not a lot of reason to do that. People don’t go on lighthouse jobs if they want to stay connected, I’ve found.
That said Id do it all again, I really do treasure those days
Placing these one after another makes it look like he left got a lighthouse job and came back six months later to update the drive through employee
The Unapologetic Self as the Truest form of Self
if i were to live in a lighthouse
thinking about her
[image description: a series of images of Angelina Ballerina-a white mouse dressed in a pink leotard-tuto combo, a pink bow, and pink ballet flats. the series from left to right is: her stretching, her doing an arabesque, her doing a croisé devant (I believe) with her arms in third position, her standing on tiptoe in fourth position while holding a bouquet. she is blushing and smiling widely. end ID.]
“got snap?” i have an address where you can send me roses and love letters mf act grown
“Richard Ill, who’s Richard Ill?”
Ball of Fire (1941) dir. Howard Hawks
𝘙𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘭𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘺
Just rediscovered potentially the funniest thing I’ve written in recent memory
Imagine if people wrote all their Les Mis modern aus in the style of Victor Hugo
An excerpt
A Taste of Honey (1961)
no one:
dark academics: haha swords coffee blood murder latin moon poetry omens history homoeroticism reading death passion haha
A Patient Vigil (above) and A Wasted Vigil (below) by Abdur Rahman Chughtai, known as the national artist of Pakistan.