“mary Wollstonecraft Sent A Volume Of Jean-jacques Rousseau's Bestselling Novel Julie, Or The New Heloise

do you think when Jon showers (rare occurance) he finds it impossible because the soap gets in his eyes and also his eyes and also his eyes and also his eyes and don’t forget his eyes and oh his eyes as well and his eyes and

Stella Tennant at Chanel spring/summer 1996

I got to hold a 500,000 year old hand axe at the museum today.

It's right-handed

I am right-handed

There are grooves for the thumb and knuckle to grip that fit my hand perfectly

I have calluses there from holding my stylus and pencils and the gardening tools.

There are sharper and blunter parts of the edge, for different types of cutting, as well as a point for piercing.

I know exactly how to use this to butcher a carcass.

A homo erectus made it

Some ancestor of mine, three species ago, made a tool that fits my hand perfectly, and that I still know how to use.

Who were you

A man? A woman? Did you even use those words?

Did you craft alone or were you with friends? Did you sing while you worked?

Did you find this stone yourself, or did you trade for it? Was it a gift?

Did you make it for yourself, or someone else, or does the distinction of personal property not really apply here?

Who were you?

What would you think today, seeing your descendant hold your tool and sob because it fits her hands as well?

What about your other descendant, the docent and caretaker of your tool, holding her hands under it the way you hold your hands under your baby's head when a stranger holds them.

Is it bizarre to you, that your most utilitarian object is now revered as holy?

Or has it always been divine?

Or is the divine in how I am watching videos on how to knap stone made by your other descendants, learning by example the way you did?

Tomorrow morning I am going to the local riverbed in search of the appropriate stones, and I will follow your example.

The first blood spilled on it will almost certainly be my own, as I learn the textures and rhythm of how it's done.

Did you have cuss words back then? Gods to blaspheme when the rock slips and you almost take your thumbnail off instead? Or did you just scream?

I'm not religious.

But if spilling my own blood to connect with a stranger who shared it isn't partaking in the divine

I don't know what is.

Petition for an Antiviral video game tie in similar to Nintendogs. You must ensure your Syd March is regularly fed and groomed. Play minigames to earn money to pay for his enormous veterinarian bills

content//hollow

they need to come up with more words like necrosis and miasma and mausoleum and cadaver and morose and decrepit and stuff like that just so metal bands can expand their vocabulary

also i literally have zero coherent thoughts about atsushi rn. i hate you and i want you out of my head, i've wanted that for so long. the softness in the way the headmaster smiles at him and says, i'll be gone. your sort-of-father who was cruel to you and who cared about you (never in ways that justified what he did to you, but never quite the monster you wish he was, either) and who haunts you and who gave you the same things that kept him alive and didn't know how to give you better. you know. the way the headmaster's death and the fact of the headmaster's humanity slices atsushi open in both universes— you hate him, and still. and still.

i love reading sad books bc when your own grief is stopped up inside you like a clogged drain you can grieve for a character on a page and understand that you're also grieving for yourself a little bit

I adore the fact that Michael Distortion is described as having a horrible laugh that sounds like a headache etc etc and then Michael Shelley shows up and turns out he's just always laughed like that. Jon and Co. were just bullying this poor man for his natural laugh this whole time