Season 1 And 4 Sketches :D

— Adrienne Rich, from “Integrity.”

thinking… about… um

doomed by the narrative but not to death. doomed to survive. doomed to stay alive inside the story. doomed to never escape the narrative, not even through death. you are allowed no exit. there is no way out for you and there never was. you couldn’t die if you wanted to. the narrative has a hold on you and it won’t let go. death is too sweet a doom for you. the story has something much worse in mind. there is no way out.

recurring gifsets of the character on my highly personalized tumblr dash save me

— from Autobiography of Red by Anne Carson

"[...] Revising the perceived sad ending of the entry, Geryon again borrows from “Red Meat,” this time its final fragment, writing, “All over the world the beautiful red breezes went on blowing hand/ in hand,” shifting away from self-centering and instead highlighting red’s continuance without him and its propensity for connection, despite Geryon’s own alienation. Redness is not exclusive to boys but can belong to breezes too."

— from Anne Carson: “Red Meat: Fragments of Stesichoros” by Kristi Maxwell

fitzjames petting neptune. if you even care.

Oh, what a happy fate, to sit in the silent room of an ancestral house among the quiet things in their abiding places, and to hear the tits sounding their first notes outside in the green and sun-shot garden, and away in the distance the village clock. To sit and gaze upon a warm strip of afternoon sunlight and to know a great deal about girls from the past and to be a poet. And to think that I too might have become such a poet if I had been able to live somewhere, anywhere on earth, in one of the many closed-up country houses that no one looks after. I would have required only one room (the sunny room under the gables). There I would have lived with my old things, my family portraits, my books. And I would have had an armchair and flowers and dogs and a stout stick for the stony paths. And nothing else. Nothing but a book bound in yellowish, ivory-coloured leather with old-style floral endpapers: in this I would have written.

from The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge by Rainer Maria Rilke

spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood have fun out there and try your best =) spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood spill blood