KIROKAZE

Andulka
tumblr dot com

roma★
Cosmic Funnies

shark vs the universe
cherry valley forever

JBB: An Artblog!
art blog(derogatory)

izzy's playlists!

tannertan36
AnasAbdin
🪼
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open

PR's Tumblrdome

Kaledo Art
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸

oozey mess

seen from Malaysia
seen from Saudi Arabia

seen from United States

seen from United States
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seen from Maldives

seen from Paraguay
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom

seen from South Korea
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seen from France

seen from Algeria
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@thelittlehydra
Pictured: Beyoncé (left) and Michael Caine (right)
fire pit: *Crackles loudly*
my shitty joints: *cracks louder to assert dominance*
(eleanor rigby voice) lady doritos / crunch with your teeth with a drastic reduction in noise / not for the boys
The earth will soon forget my oldest sins, oh lord see what state I'm in. I don't believe in fate but I did believe in you and what a shame that you would find me, weeping as I do. I loved you I loved you I loved you.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY MEWTWO!
King James I: *builds secret tunnel connecting his room to the room of a man he calls his husband*
Historians: it’s very hard to tell what kind of relationship they would have had, let’s not look at this through a 21st century lens
Interviewer: where do you see yourself in 5 years?
Me: I used escapist fantasies as a coping mechanism to get through years of trauma and therefore never learned how to plan for a real life future
me, every time i enter a book shop: is this the day i get my cute gay au
me, at the aquarium: WHERE ARE ALL THE SEA GAYS
me, clueless at sephora with my makeup loving friends: where’s my clueless lesbian meets cute makeup obsessed bisexual who finds my complete confusion adorable au
me at an art museum: where’s an art history major gay who can teach me about all the paintings and blush when i look at them instead of the masterpieces
okay just fyi i have that art history major bi dream girl and after a while, gazing at her adoringly Does Not Work and she will want you to Look At The Art and she will Ask You Hard Questions About It and You’d Better Have Been Paying Attention
how dare u make me cry my own tears
I hate when people ask me “what did you do today?” like buddy listen I woke up at noon and then it was five pm okay I don’t kn o w
bill gates looks like the dude from the nintendogs competition
i am fast and full of teeth. i willl die in a barn fire
are you a .. .horse
Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.
Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”
“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”
The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”
“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”
Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.
“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”
“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”
“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”
“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”
“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.
“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”
“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
all i want is to have one of those ghibli moments where the protag is just lying in a breezy field with wildflowers and big puffy clouds overhead. that’s the goal here.
GUYS the 80s are back!!!!
Star Wars, high waisted jeans, over sized sweaters, flannels, horrible republican government, conflict with Russia, the ever impending threat of Nuclear Anihilation, scrunchies,
I’m so pink silk but I’m also very black leather