Chappcdlips - ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ꜱɪᴅᴇ

Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry written in October 1920, featured in The Diary of Virginia Woolf: Vol.2, 1920-1924

attempting to get a cup of coffee before he headed home, cyrus was distracted by the voice beside him at the counter. he glanced over at soren, an eyebrow lifting, "it's because it's bad for you." he deadpanned, too irritated to actually put up any sort of act. his day had been too long and the statement too annoying. cyrus was practically pathological about how he treated his own body and so always thought that everyone else must hold themselves to the same standards, "your body is a temple. everything you put in it matters." cyrus explained, tone only really slightly pretentious, "you're too young to be messing up your body like that." he shook his head, "what is it? the aesthetic of cigarettes? not worth the smell or the diseases. trust me." he sighed, thanking the waitress as she set his coffee in front of him, "stick to caffeine or something. and don't start that damn vaping. we don't even know the long-term health consequences of that."

location: dolly's diner time: late afternoon status: open!

something about diners. greasy leather seats. overheard secrets tangled up with the clatter of forks. bitter, often stale coffee -- unless you got lucky enough to walk in when the place was mostly empty. unlikely. the kind of place where time hangs heavy, like it got tired and sat down to rest in the corner booth. red creek felt the same, like it had long surrendered to time’s weight instead of running alongside it. no reinvention, no salvation -- just a stubborn place clinging to people like mud after rain, or maybe quicksand, tugging until they sank without a fight. soren didn't have to imagine dark things haunting its bones when its effect where already laying there, sprawled out for anyone willing to see. maybe ancient spirits seeking revenge after having their forever homes suffocated with asphalt and cement. maybe nothing at all, just the weight of a town folding in on itself, vanishing into a fog you didn’t know you’d entered until it was too late. soren wouldn't flinch if someone shattered the silence with a lynchian scream -- sinister close-ups, faces trembling under the pressure of things better left unsaid -- right there in the diner, right as he staed at his gone stale coffee. and perhaps it was his obsession with intricate stories that blurred the line with reality, but twin peaks really didn't feel like fiction anymore; it was a blueprint, a warning for places like this, where the mundane teetered on the edge of surreal, where time sagged, like peeling wallpaper in a room sealed off for too long, and good people stumbled into band endings. even diners -- those greasy churches of familiarity -- could warp into confessional booths. soren let his face fall into his hands, elbows propped at the sides of the cup of coffee. if it had been steaming, it would've made a perfect shot. “ you know what's bullshit, ” he spoke as soon as he felt a presence next to him finally glad to push his inner monologue onto someone else, anyone unlucky enough to hear. he continued as his hands dropped to his lap, revealing a face worn thin by restless nights. “ the fact that they made it illegal to smoke in public places. especially diners. ” though it wasn't just diners. it was also cinemas, trains, pubs.... a beat. then two fingers lifted to his lips, mimicking the pitch of a cigarette between index and thumb. soren inhaled theatrically, face tilting upward as though savoring the hit. then, just as theatrically, he ground the phantom amber into an imaginary glass ashtray, the kind with ornate edges. clock. sound design coming from his tongue against his palate and he swat the phantom ashtray away, still dipped in his interactive daydream.

HA DO YEONG eating his salad (& her ass up with that response)

THE GLORY - EPISODE 11

there was something about fresh grief that was numbing, a sort of autopilot that griffin's body just immediately clicked into. he remembered when his uncle died, he was young but he could remember how heavy it felt, like a set of football shoulder pads that he couldn't just shrug off like he had when he was five and tried peewee football for all of six minutes. this felt different. he hadn't been particularly close to his cousin, but still, it felt awful, he felt sick to his stomach. since hearing the news, his body felt like it was in a permanent dry heave while his head was empty, too overwhelmed to form a single thought. but he had to get out of the house, which led to wandering, which led to here standing in front of collette with a vacant expression on his face. he cleared his throat, shrugging, "i don't really know what i said either. not important. probably just, like, hey, what's up?" griffin shrugged, taking his gloves off and shoving them in his coat pockets, "got anything interesting for sale today?" not that he was planning on buying anything, but he could use the distraction.

LOCATION : red creek fish market. TIME OF DAY : mid - morning, just a bit before noon. STATUS : open starter, accepting replies.

the  cognitive  limbo  felt  more  physical  than  usual  —  a  headiness,  floaty  &  almost  dreamlike,  forcing  collette's  attention  in  multiple  directions  as  on  one  hand,  the  influx  of  news  that  came  from  a  radio  behind  the  counter  -  though  interrupted  with  pulsing  static,  still  loud  enough  for  them  to  hear  all  the  unsightly  details  of  this  morning's  findings,  versus  the  smile,  unsubstantial  but  still  there,  etched  onto  their  face  with  a  serrated  blade. it  was  nothing  out  of  sorts,  coming  from  towns  whose  fibre  was  woven  with  tragedy,  yet  each  news  alert  doesn't  get  more  palatable  with  time.  this  was  an  ache  one  couldn't  easily  soothe  over  with  a  few  licks  to  the  wound,  and  it  stunted  collette,  one  whose  gaze  bounced  between  others  whose  mouths  equally  as  upturned  as  their  own,  though  she  could  almost  see  the  scars  of  theirs,  too.  sic  vita  est,  life  goes  on,  but  this  ear  worm  remained  persistent.  they  hated  it,  the  insistence  to  just  keep  going,  life  as  usual  when  someone  no  longer  has  that  opportunity.  but  through  the  fog,  a  voice  boomed,  syllables  growing  clearer,  a  “  huh,  sorry,  ”  spoken  under  the  vendor's  breath.  “  can  you  —  can  you  say  that  again  ?  sorry.  i  didn't  hear  you  correctly,  i  don't  think  …  ”

10 Things I Hate About You (1999) dir. Gil Junger

GERALDINE VISWANATHAN 2024, ph. Andrew Jacobs for Vanity Fair

always vaguely feeling like im in trouble for something but idk what

If I don’t drive you crazy then what’s the point

"with the amount of glasses they've got here? at least 45% of them are bound to be a little broken." cyrus assured with a slight shake of his head, "not your fault." he'd heard about the memorial, about the extra names, though he hadn't gone himself too busy with chasing his kids around. and he knew zeynep's name was there. he wasn't going to bring it up, but when she volunteered a quip about it, he hummed, "they'll notice." a pause, "we'll notice." it felt easy to provide that assurance. it felt true. in a town like red creek, with a family like zeynep's? he was sure everyone would know, that everyone would worry. he let out a soft sigh, leaning back in his seat, "and it's not going to happen, okay? nothing is going to happen." of course, cyrus couldn't promise that, but it was no use harping on the worst possible outcome, it would get them all nowhere.

location: redstone bar

time & date: february 15 & 6:00pm

status: open to everyone !

“it  was  an  accident,  i  swear!”  the  words  rushed  out  in  a  furious  whisper, she hadn't even noticed that she wasn't alone.  zeynep  pushed the empty glass she had been inspecting away from herself, before signaling the bartender for another around.  “the  glass  was  cracked  when  i  picked  it  up,  who  knows  how  long  it’s  been  defective...right?” she couldn't help but cringe at the sound of her voice, the brief crack felt foreign. no part of her wanted to admit that her name etched into the memorial had left her frightened. zeynep knew fear, it had plagued her nights. every red and blue flashing light had left her in a cold sweat for years. “anyways, apparently i'm on a hit list. they might not even notice before i become the next missing myth in town.” the words flowed so flippantly from her that zeynep could almost fool herself with the feigned nonchalance. “you don't think they'll notice, do you?”