everybody is a book of blood.
wallacepolsom

oozey mess
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
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AnasAbdin
will byers stan first human second

pixel skylines

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Acquired Stardust
noise dept.

izzy's playlists!
Monterey Bay Aquarium
sheepfilms

JVL
we're not kids anymore.
$LAYYYTER
hello vonnie
cherry valley forever

ellievsbear

JBB: An Artblog!

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@wolfcalls
everybody is a book of blood.
Wolves Attack (Detail), oil on canvas — Maciej Sancewicz after Alfred Wierusz-Kowalski
for the stars, for the snow, for the wolves.
Details from Valente Celle Tomb. So delicate.
edits of levi; 2.
Monsters are not gentle. That is what you have been told, and to a certain degree, it holds true. Rough claws, rough voice, a rough-around-the-edges personality. But that doesn’t mean monsters cannot be safe, cannot be kind. Gentleness and kindness are not one and the same. Monsters can be viciously kind, monsters can be violently safe. Gentleness is not a requirement for love.
Just because I do not express, does not mean I do not feel. I feel grief even without losing, I feel sorrow without a wound.
I feel lonely among the crowd, I feel empty after gaining all. There is still a void when my mind is filled with hundreds of thoughts.
There is still hunger even after celebrating victory. There is still thirst though I have drunk the whole bottle of sweet poison.
There is still desire even after fulfilling the darkest one. Silence may hide my words, but my heart still speaks in shadows.
-icanbeanyone
D. H. Lawrence, from a letter featured in The Selected Letters of D. H. Lawrence
the luster of something sacrificial.
🐺🌕first full moon of the decade 🌕🌲
The Wolf Moon in the sign of Cancer ♋️
Rosa Chacel, from a diary entry featured in Diario, originally published in 1993
Jeanette Winterson, Written on the Body
[Text ID: “I love her what can I do?”]
among the roses. in the company of wolves.
to be what i am deliberately believed to be a wolf, ruthless and cold.
And I—and I go out without hope, without purpose, and return home the same as when I went.
Goethe, The Sorrows of Young Werther (trans. Bayard Quincy Morgan)