Starcrazy

my ledger of failure and hatred  [ask away] [read my stuff here]

[classicfilmsource]

Sidney Poitier & Diahann Carroll in Paris Blues (1961) dir. Martin Ritt

[genzchaos]

Yes, because Disco Elysium's portrayal of cops was famously positive

[circus0shifter]

meeting new people

[ashcremated]

shhhh theyre sleeby 🤏🤏

[johnbitchsociety]

Sometimes Twitter is good, actually.

[parasolemn]

X7 Masterpost so I can stop getting confused where to find my stuff

My stuff:

Acts 1-3 Summaries Acts 4-5 Summaries Narrative Overview (Non-Summaries) Acts 1-3 Narrative Overview (Non-Summaries) Acts 4-5, + Analysis & Endings Design Section, Part 1 Design Section, Part 2

Other cool folk:

wykwryt: Box of Locusts Miro Board, Content Slide revacholreverie: Act V Plot Details, Tasks, and Endings (blog contains more rips from the video if interested) vacholierette: Screenshots from the video, mainly artwork vampire-pierrot: Gif'd animations skeletor9000-blog: Many more screenshots, including gameplay etc

[janrockart]

twin elysium

[stylecouncil]

The Art Of Falling Apart

“Brett Anderson looks like a runaway from a detox clinic. He's wearing frayed Levi's, odd socks, a shapeless black T-shirt and dying shoes. He gazes blankly at the world through painfully red eyes, and speaks through a permanent sniff in a theatrical London drawl that trails off into an introspective slur. At other times he whines like a girl, toys nervously with his hair and regularly scratches and picks at some reddening scabs on his arms. He laughs when I ask him if he's wasting away on heavy drugs. "When you're sucked through this media machine and run under the wheels of the star machine, you can go to bed with a cup of cocoa and wake up looking like Bela Lugosi in the morning." Trashed on success, then. Brett could pass for one of the heroic victims that inhabit his songs; wasted from too much youth, bad drugs and violent sex. This is the mythology of Suede: eternal teenagers hooked on downers, sleeping pills and self-abuse, chasing a soundtrack of swooning guitars under the cold lights of some vicious city. In rock 'n' roll terms, it's X-Ray Spex's gritty urban alienation combined with The Smiths' heartfelt indie-passion and topped with the dispassionate slide into kinky junkie doom of Lou Reed's Berlin and Bowie's tarty Jean Genie. The core elements are familiar, but two years ago Suede injected the shock of simply being Suede into their plagiarisms and somersaulted into full-blown fame. On stage, Brett used his mic as if it was a cock, whip and bondage cord to encircle his thighs in a brazenly, transgressively sexual gesture. On Top Of The Pops, he jiggled kitten-like hips in low-slung trousers while a cropped top revealed a wiggling navel that both startled and simply turned people on. They released defiant singles like Animal Nitrate, a sleazy soap-opera that thrust unheard of amounts of rough trade and S&M imagery into the charts. Before they'd even finished their debut LP, Suede had appeared on 19 different magazine covers and, when it was released in March '93, the eponymous record sold over 100,000 copies in just two days. One year later and Brett sits on the floor of an East London photographic studio talking about his past, his future and what it's like to be a pop star - while I wonder if he's got enough energy and vision to be anything more than last year's model or this year's casualty.”

October 1994

[feignedremote]

Memory says of the event: it once was and now it will never be again. The irremediable character of what has no present, of what is not even there as having once been there, says: it never happened, never for a first time, and yet it starts over, again, again, infinitely. It is without end, without beginning. It is without a future.

Maurice Blanchot, The Space of Literature, trans. Ann Smock

[bitchofanitch]

What a week!

[sidras-tak]

Kim “there will be time for sitting on benches after we solve the murder” Kitsuragi sits on the swings with you for at least an hour without a single complaint, not rushing you, playing along with whatever silly conversation threads you start, waiting for you to realize on your own that the crashed motor carriage in front of you is your own. He gently leads you towards this profoundly upsetting information, the most damning evidence thus far of how completely fucked you are, just, like, as a human. Reckless, impulsive, suicidal. When you eventually piece it together, he comforts you with sincerity. This is the man who reminds you at every conversational tangent that you are on a deadline, who has to be cajoled into playing a board game with you for a couple hours. And yet he sits with you on the swings until the tide goes out, all so he can catch you when you start to fall apart.

[winds-somewhere-safe-to-sea]

let me guess 🙄 you're tired 🙄 it's too hard 🙄 it's too much 🙄

[cusn0]

"tereesz as defoe and oranges meme isn't real, he can't hurt you--"

[whacklez]

kleya "can't stand these rebels" marki

[bitchofanitch]

[larkstonguesinaspicpart1]

“Chewbacca is… a Maoist. Hera Syndulla? A Trotskyist. Ahsoka Tano? A Social Democrat. Ezra Bridger? A Posadist. Lost! All of them, lost. I am the only one with clarity of purpose.”

[productomag]