#thanatosis

[selmietheseal]

introducing the reason I've not been posting much art... I'm making a webcomic!

[proyecto-remanso]

Hi. I have ocs.

[versinalia]

Visit Original Link

"Thanatosis" by Japanese band DAMNED, off their 2024 single Thanatosis

Bandcamp

[purumuhugr]

Pussumu practice AAAAAAAAAAAAAA

[nugothrhythms]

“Thanatosis” by Lima, Peru-based coldwave one-man-band Schmerz off of 2023 debut full-length album Lamentum

[corvidcrimes]

talking in a vc at 2:30 in the morning is a bad idea

you start talking about mitosis and thanatosis and get the visual of Thanatos Hades laying on the ground with his tongue sticking out playing dead

help

[stabbyarm]

When night falls, it falls hard and fast - a bowling ball off a crumpled tin roof. Its tar black is deceptive - it’s never as silent as it is dark. Constance didn’t mind - it was the closest to quiet she’d known - when you grow up with the roar of the road as your lullaby, its hard to imagine peace without some white noise. A tireless orchestra of bugs scraping out a symphony all over the huge country. Cars whispering past like schoolyard secrets. The lull of wind through rushes and cornfields, a siren song beckoning you to the thrashing inky heart, like it’s the ocean’s abyss. Her mama’s trailer creaking in the breeze like an arthritic hip in need of an aluminium replacement. But that’s home. This rusty, groaning old shitbucket. Stinking of cigarettes and damp and old booze. Disinfectant. Gunpowder, fur and blood. It’d hit a stranger like a meat mallet and a thief wouldn’t touch it with a fifteen foot pole. But she likes it that way. That’s home. That’s how it’s always been. If you stripped away the rot and the rust and the trash it wouldn’t even leave a skeleton to salvage.

Those nights that she couldn't sleep she’d turn on the old bakelite radio - tune it to that space between stations and let those cosmic bees buzz her to sleep. That sound would sit at the back of her skull and was softer than any pillow. Not any more. She knows he wouldn’t stand it. At least his heavy breaths fill some of the quiet.

It was strange at first - the sound of life so close by - it’d been years since someone else had breathed her space’s musty air. She’d lain awake and listened - frowning, teeth gritted - imagined driving her elbow into his ribs to shut him up. At least if he was snoring she’d have had an excuse. He grumbles in his sleep too - like his heart would stop if he didn’t, for a single second. Slurs muttered thoughts, the inked parchment of his mind dropped into a basin of water. She tried to focus on it, sifts through it, like sand through her fingers, tries to pick out clear words like a vulture at a carcass. There are none. Her eyes trace the tea stain leaks that map the ceiling - when she was a kid she’d imagine they lined uncharted countries - maybe even a new world - and one day she and her mom would sail the sea between them and claim them as their new home. And there wouldn’t be any hot, clinging dust, or endless yarn of faded tarmac. Now, she could only smile, at how little those shapes had changed.

Her mama had lived and died in this fucking thing, in that bunk her cousin now slept in. Constance had never left the country. She listened to his breathing again. Deep, rattling. Slow. Calm. Sounded like the ocean; or at least, she imagined it did.

There were nights she sat at his side. She wasn’t sure why, exactly, what drew her there; but she’d sit at the foot of the ladder and hug her knees to her chest. Just to be closer to him. There was a part of her - not a small part - that wasn’t entirely sure he was there. That she wasn’t imagining it. So close she could smell him - that strange, warm earthen scent, not stale sweat or piss or dust to match his vest and steel hair. When she tentatively slipped her hand into his it actually tightened, so gently - his huge, rough hands holding hers like she was a little bird. So gentle, even in his sleep. She’d prodded the stub of his little finger with a sly grin - she remembered the glow, that golden glow of booze, gleaming lights like stained glass in a cheap bar. She remembered him too, his chestnut hair already greying - they must’ve been what, twenty five? twenty seven? she’d mocked him relentlessly and he’d taken it with a smirk that coulda lit a gas station fire. Drunk under the table because he never knew his limits and Constance never forgot it. They were stupid. And so damn young. Best friends in a way only your estranged family can be.

But now booze tasted like McDonalds cola and she bit off far worse things than her cousin’s baby finger on a weekly basis.

The memory though. Hm. That still felt good.

She touched her forehead to his - frown lines like canyons - she snorted. When did he get so old. When did she?

“I missed you,” she whispered. He stirred, grunted - her heart seized for a second. Too soon. But still, he slept. Good.

It felt a little better now, somehow. Like a stone had been pried from her heart. Kissing his brow - she felt the warmth beneath his skin and something curled tight in her gut. Not harshly, not painfully. Not anxiety or regret. It felt like fulfilment, and that, she decided, was nice, actually.

Those kind of words, she’d learnt, were wasted on a corpse.

(Constance belongs to the wonderful @junkxrat !)

[herpskeepers]

Playing dead also known as thanatosis (Natrix natrix).

Credit: Unknown

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