izzy's playlists!
sheepfilms
titsay
shark vs the universe
Peter Solarz
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
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roma★
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Cosimo Galluzzi
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Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
taylor price
One Nice Bug Per Day
tannertan36
cherry valley forever
YOU ARE THE REASON
Sweet Seals For You, Always
Keni
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@ohfiendangelical
𝐡𝐞𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬 , a playlist for corinne & zero .
in the hazy blue you look so sweet / i almost forget what you'd do to me / if i let you / 'cause even blood will run / like the tears of a saint / with a face like that / you could get away with anything / and i know you know that / 'cause even blood will run / like the tears of a saint / with a face like that / you could get away with anything
hello. happy (early, it's tomorrow) birthday to me: i finally got a job. starting monday i will be working at a dispensary :) i promise i will get to replies when i can. without the despair & stress of unemployment i hope to be able to focus more on the things i enjoy, like writing. wahoo!
anytime i get an idea for a url change tumblr cockblocks meeeee
z smells like narcissus and jasmine. no i will not be making an edit
1 thing abt iwtv.... it will remind me i am unoriginal
To a stranger by Walt Whitman
VAN HELSING
2004, dir. Stephen Sommers
95% of sentence starter memes have (to me) the most uncanny valley, unnatural dialogue cadence, but i can't articulate how, like what exactly is so "wrong" about them, and it drives me. Crazy
By Alex Stoddard: Long Night, 2019.
THERE IS A FLICKER OF DISTANT RECOLLECTION IN JONGWOO’S EYES AT THE MENTION OF ZERO’S NAME. then, all at once, it dawns on him — his eyes go wide, his mouth opening in a shocked sort of grin. oh! oh! he’s pointing at zero with realization. grinning. ecstatic.
“ yes! yes, that’s where i know you from! icarus, right? and flower children? gosh, i loved those films. very inspiring. the practical effects seemed so real. very incredible, extremely compelling. fantastic work! ”
the horror might have let his eyes at the sight of the blood, but it returns three fold as zero pulls himself from the water. jongwoo averts his eyes, practically turning full body so as to block this strangers nude from from view. his cheeks burn.
and now he has to tell him about his creative projects? god.
“ uhm, i wrote a crime thriller. 타인은 지옥이다, or — hell is other people. though the most popular english translation is strangers from hell. ”
Jongwoo smiles and it’s like the sun comes out. Zero is reminded of the laughing foxes he sometimes finds in the woods, their deceptive innocence, how easy it is to forget that they’re wild animals. Then a cloud passes over the sun again: his nakedness has offended. He laughs, and then, upon hearing the author’s title, gasps, a shamelessly pornographic sound, clapping his hands together with an almost childlike glee.
“I do know you!” He beams, wringing water from his golden curls; the chlorine has given them a sickly greenish pallor, like polluted seafoam. “I love that book. Wish I could read it for the first time again. The way you infuse eroticism into the violence, this palpable, unacknowledged undercurrent—masterful. Electric. Bet it hits even harder without all the muddiness of translation.” (He can practically hear Tabby, smugly omnilingual: Yeah, it does.)
He did, in fact, look at the photo on the back flap of the novel, wondering about the person who wrote it. He’s kicking himself now for not recognizing him; the novel is sensational not only for its content but the circumstances surrounding its publication, the artist’s purging of a real-life event. Jongwoo is not only a writer but a survivor, the same portrait at the back of the book also found in news articles, thinkpieces, true crime retrospectives.
“I can’t believe I get to meet you. Almost makes me wish I was wearing clothes.” But only almost.
@fleshfruits SAID: “come on. it'll be just like in the movies.” ☆ mulholland drive sentence starters ☆ send FANMAIL!
“Sure, sure, but if we get caught, I may never be allowed to make a movie again,” he points out, immediately hating the sound of his own voice, its toothless hesitance. Since when has he ever played anything safe? When did he stop being game? This will be what ultimately forces him to concede: he does not want to be a tame animal in the Hollywood zoo, sedated, bound by the chains of fame and money.
Even so, stealing three ancient manuscripts from the UCLA library is a tall order. No doubt she has some sort of magic trick up her sleeve; she seems very confident in their ability to pull this off. Maybe she needs a demon’s help and went for the one easiest to fold. Maybe she just knows he’s the only person dumb enough to convince. Or—less likely but still possible—this is her way of asking to share something with him, an invitation to adventure, an act of love.
She’s looking at him like he’s already agreed, eyes glittering like gems. He hates how well she knows him. Abra’s presence forced her to learn how to read his silences, his non-answers, and now she understands all his secret languages. The self-disgust was evident in his apprehension. She has him and she knows it, knew it immediately.
“Why do you need them, anyway? Why can’t you just, like”—he pauses, unsure if library artifacts work the same way—“check them out?”
❝ I'm sorry, Zero. ❞ She seems to be apologising a lot lately. ❝ I know there's nothing I can do about this. Any of this. I'm just.... I'm just— ❞ Stupid. Naive. Full of hope. ❝ Human. I-I can't make it all better for you. I wish I could. ❞ That's the strangeness of it all. She does wish she could make it better for him; in a twisted, caring sort of way that doesn't deserve to be directed at someone who kidnapped her once and terrified her to death. And yet, she continues to to care. Her fatal flaw.
One day maybe it would be her undoing.
She presses the heel of her palm into her eye, asking the same questions he is. Why is she doing this? ❝ Maybe you're just too good an actor and I really do find you charming. I don't know. I don't know why I'm here. ❞ The admission is quiet; guilty. ❝ I just know I'm not going to walk away from here without knowing you're okay. Well... okay as you can be. ❞
Behind her, a flurry of movement. The crowd disperses to make way for more officials as a landing airbag is being set up. There's a flash of a camera, and another; chatter from a too-cheery newswoman behind her breaks Corinne's pinpointed attention. Still, she doesn't avert her gaze. Refocus. This isn't about them. This is about Zero. It almost angers her how quickly the media descended.
❝ Will you come down? Or do I have to come up and get you? ❞
Zero takes a breath—shakier than he would like it to sound—and looks down at the scene below, exhaustion deepening. The whole world has paused itself for him. Everyone’s eyes are raised, waiting to see what he does, wondering if today really is the day. They’re breathless, primed and eager for tragedy, for poignancy, something real to cut through the Hollywood farce. It strikes him suddenly that he’d be letting them all down by surviving this. Living would be anticlimactic, unoperatic; it would be proof that the whole exercise was just a waste of everyone’s precious time. A glorified traffic jam. None of these people want him to live, not really; they want a conclusion, and everyone in LA knows how to write this ending, from the first responders to the media. Corinne is the only one pleading in earnest.
He laughs again, wearily, trying to determine who he wants to spite more: the girl on the phone or the rest of the world. His eyes fill with tears. Looking down into the crowd, he can see her there, clutching that phone with all the hope and dread of a deer in the headlights. He’d ask her why again but she already gave him the truest possible answer—that she doesn’t know.
He opens his mouth to say something sharp and mean but nothing comes. His breathing has only gotten shakier with the crying. They’re setting up the airbag beneath him, taking choice away. They’ll be on him like vultures the second he touches down, enforcing the disappointing end but blaming him for it all the same. And then it’s off to the hospital until someone comes to pick him up.
“God’s gonna punish you for this one. Big time,” he finally says, and steps off the ledge.
There is a moments’ satisfaction at the screams, the collective gasp. He wishes it could end there, but then his fall is broken, and here they all come, swarming him like flies. Lile vultures. Phone still in hand, he scans for Corinne, wondering if they’ll let her through.
@handspike SAID: sometimes, good things happen. Reggie ☆ mulholland drive sentence starters ☆ send FANMAIL!
He takes a sip of wine and leans backward over the railing of the terrace, gazing at the dim glow of stars above from upside down. For a moment, he stays like that, not saying anything. Then, in a swift, sudden movement, he’s upright again, laughing lightly at the sensation of blood rushing away from his skull.
The wineglass is set down, replaced by a dispensary-issued preroll. He takes a long inhale of herb-fragrant smoke, holding it in his lungs as he observes the stars again. Then he passes it along to her, exhaling slowly.
“Am I a good thing?” he asks coyly, grinning horribly. The correct answer is absolutely not, and he’s daring her to say so.
Dost Roland follow these instructions dutifully: pecking in the concurrent numbers aft repeating them aloud for better remembering, tucking back inside his van to drive up that luscious incline, flowers and trees and a gorgeous hallway of greenery gold-limned with the rising, peaceful Father Sun in this atmospheric climb.
The house is large, soaking from its modern wealth, and Roland cackles beside his crackling phone and honks the horn in joyous greeting: a jerky rendition of the theme-song from the Scooby Doo television series.
"Zero!" shouts Roland, leaning his head from his van, still in motion; driving with one hand as his other forgets to hang up his ancient phone. "Hello! Grand tidings and good Morning onto thee!"
The sun is trying to burn off his melancholy like coastal fog. Zero feels exposed, washed out—but it’s difficult to wallow in self-consciousness with someone like Roland around. The sight of the van alone is enough to bring a smile—dimmer than usual, perhaps, but genuine—and everything that follows comforts him further. He even laughs fondly, waving, welcoming.
“And also onto thee, sugar,” he replies, almost managing to resemble himself.
The pack of dogs have started their racket, curious and excited about the new arrival; soon Simba joins them, commanding them, leader of the absurd pride. He demands first inspection, and of course first scratch behind the ears.
The animals swarm the car as soon as the engine cuts off. Zero holds back, thinking again about bursting into flames. It wouldn’t be a good way to go. He hangs up the phone and whistles for the dogs, not wanting to overwhelm his visitor so soon.
“Sorry,” he calls across the wide driveway, “Everyone gets a little excited about new friends.”
rosemary smiles at his obedience and drops the worm onto his tongue before taking her own. she tilts her head backwards and swallows the creature alive. the taste of dirt lingers, but she doesn't mind too much. her mind is already expanding, and the door swings open without the necessary key - it reveals the gore of the house:
the decay is just as bad inside as out and the building is rigged with neon strips along every corner where the ceiling meets the wall. a collection of people smoke cigarettes in the entryway, hair gelled and spiked in all directions. mesh tank tops and tattoos cover their chests, leaving a perfect slit of midriff above torn jeans and battered combat boots. they remain faceless - just fans, worshippers, lenders. at the end of the hall it gets more crowded.
"hold my hand," she says, and leads him inside.
it's aquarium blue. they swim through bodies and smoke and sound toward the centre of the crowd. zero's skin will start to crawl with hands. the crowd is hungry for him. they pull at his clothes, feel for the muscles of his back, his arms. rosemary is untouched. she glances over her shoulder at him and smiles.
"it's nothing to be scared of. they'll only take as much as you give them as we pass through."
The need to make sense of things dies inside of him, carcass devoured by the bliss of sensation. If this is a dream, it’s a good one. If it’s a hallucination, he welcomes it; better this than all the hateful ghosts of lives past.
When he’s reassured, his dazed look is punctuated with something quizzical: Zero isn’t scared at all. To him, this is the best feeling in the world. He comes alive beneath the orgiastic hands, thrives on the attention of Rosemary’s hungry brood. Any lingering doubts he may have had about entering this realm of the surreal have dispelled entirely; he gives himself over to the strangeness, the beauty, his own vanity-drenched pleasure.
His gaze falls to his and Rosemary’s linked hands. He wonders why nobody touches her. He would, if he were one of them. Perhaps she doesn’t allow it, this dead mansion queen, witch of the hills.
A familiar sensation in his eyes. He still has enough sense to shut them until it passes, allowing himself to be led blindly. The hands keep coming in the dark; he shudders, a euphoric smile snaking across his lips.
“Where are we? ... What is this?”
