God If There Was A Book Of Forbidden Spells I Wouldn’t Even Hesitate

love is a drug and babygirl, im a faggot

lucky i wasn’t born with a dick bc i’d get hard from seeing a beautiful body of water

>hear frantic clicking and the sounds of exertion

>must be a rhythm game player

>genuinely impressed at the apm

>look outside

>crabs are pinching a man to death

My era rn is uncategorizable. The the way I am living is unheard of

Wounds of the Earth

— by xis.lanyx

sniffs you

I do wholeheartedly believe Wes Anderson is a sick sick freak. I like his movies but I definitely think this guy has like a hidden room in his spacious french apartment that he slips into quietly each night and it is just filled with tiny little doll replicas of all the actors he's ever used in any of his movies and he puppets them around and mimicks their voices and shit. and sometimes he'll text Owen Wilson pictures of his little doll with a comb or something from an untraceable number and pair it with like "see how I take care of you Owen?" and then the following day Owen Wilson will find him at the service table and go, "Geez Wes look at this," and Wes will pretend to be all concerned and horrified but there is this calculating almost eager look in his eyes that unsettles Owen Wilson. and the next time Wes is having a little soiree with all his actors, his beloved beloved actors, maybe Owen Wilson will accidentally get lost on his way to the beautiful bathroom and find that little room and see all those dolls and his throat will hitch with horror. And before he can call Bill Murray or Adrian Brody to look a dark silhouette will appear in the doorway and Wes looks sort of resigned when he says, "I see you finally found my secret, Owen," and Owen Wilson will try and pretend that he's fine with it but they both know better. and Wes will go (the look in his eyes back again) "We both know this can't get out, right?" and he'll grin very suddenly and Owen Wilson will laugh along very nervously and leave the room and eat some brioche and when the evening is over he will rush over to his Prius and frantically click his keys but over the cobbles on the beautiful beautiful street there is the sound of footsteps. and tears are running down Owen Wilson's cheeks but he can't say a word and Wes, emerging from the shadows, will gently touch him on the shoulder and say, "look, I'll drive you to the airport, huh?" and Owen Wilson will try to refuse but they both know it's futile. and, halfway through the drive, Wes Anderson will smile and say, "I'll miss working with you" and then perfectly jump and roll out of the car, wiping off his corduroy pants, while Owen Wilson's Prius swerves into a local patisserie, bursting into flames

it's me boy, the medieval scribe speaking to you inside your brain. listen to me boy. draw in the margins of your notes instead of paying attention

we named it the computer mouse because it fit so comfortably in our hands and it reminded us of ancient times where our ancestors put their palms over the backs of cave mice and shuffled them across the ground to move the cursor on their cave wall mounted gaming monitors

i can hear darwin evolving down the chimney now