#-a stranger in the streets

[kittykatninja321]

superhero romance is actually so fun because what does “I would die for you” mean from a guy who would die for anyone?

[remy]

Lord I see what you have done for others. Get me out of this state !

Me and my boyfriend (butch) are finally leaving Texas for Washington in June, we have everything planned out but we desperately need funding to secure housing once we get up there, and money for the 3000 mile drive from here to there

Please reblog and share!

[taeiris]

happy- wait… what day is it again?

prints and stickers up! shop now<3

[nonsensical-ramblings]

HELP THEY'RE FOLLOWING ME

(Found in Florence, Italy 💛💙)

[theshitpostcalligrapher]

sometimes adulthood is about becoming oddly excited in finding a small mom n pop grocer that will sell you honeycrisp apples at a shockingly low price

[wynnyfryd]

There’s a dead rat on the doorstep.

Steve’s running late for school and his hair is limp and lifeless because his hair dryer shorted out the shitty circuit in their shitty shoebox of a trailer, and now there’s a dead rat turning to sludge on his front porch. If you can call the rickety steps leading up to the flimsy front door a porch.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters — spares himself one brief moment of panic to remember the last time he started seeing dead rats around town, reminds himself that it’s over it’s over it’s over, that this is probably a housewarming gift from one of the stray cats in the park — then he shouts into the house, “Ma, stay inside!”

“Everything okay over there?”

Their neighbor gives him a wary look as he shuts the door of his truck. Must have just gotten home from a night shift, by the looks of it; Steve can see the bags under his eyes from all the way over here.

“Yes, Sir, all good. Just, uh— got a little surprise on the…”

Steve glances down at his feet, scrubs a hand through his limp hair. There’s a dark puddle spreading beneath the matted, mangled fur. Its neck is snapped in half.

Steve’s gonna hurl.

“Ah,” is all he says as he approaches their yard, spots the gore oozing over the first rung of the stairs. “That’ll be Misty’s doing. She’s harmless, really, just likes to leave treats.”

His eyes rake over Steve’s pale face, the white-knuckle grip on his backpack strap, and he gives Steve a pat on the shoulder. Warm, reassuring; smelling faintly of sweat and menthol. “Listen, kid,” he says, nodding at his own trailer, “do me a favor and make sure my nephew gets his ass to school, would you? I’ll take care of this for you.”

Great, Steve thinks. More babysitting.

Whatever. What’s one more little shithead to wrangle? Beats getting blood under his fingernails. His stomach rolls at the thought. “Sure thing, Mr…?”

“Munson. But you can call me Wayne.”

“Sure thing, Wayne.”

He rushes down the steps, grateful to put distance between himself and the fresh horror that’s gonna live behind his eyelids for the next month, and he doesn’t even register the name until it’s already too late. The neighbor’s door bursts open before Steve can even get a proper knock going, and oh. God.

“What the fuck?”

Steve’s standing chest to chest with Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson, and the freak looks pissed about it.

…Well, shit.

part 2

[go-go-devil]

The entire 3-minute city ambiance scene from Ghost in the Shell (1995) is already one of the best moments in all of cinema imo, but I NEED to talk about my absolute favorite part from it:

That brief moment when Major Kusanagi and a stranger with her exact same body model catch a glance at one another. How quickly the initial curiosity of seeing the doppelgänger turns into a feeling of unease as the boat carries her away.

She will never meet this stranger. She'll never know anything about her other than the simple reminder that every piece of her cybernetic body is not unique to her. There is no part of her other than her brain and all its memories that she has any true ownership of, and even that isn't immune to being hacked and potentially erased by outside forces. Despite being a part of a bustling city, all she can do is reflect on how utterly isolated she feels as a living being.

How can she possibly define her humanity when she herself is confined in the form of what is essentially a highly modified weapon? How can she relate to others when she has more in common with the mannequins on display in a shopping mall than with the any of the people walking the streets?

All of this inner turmoil at one’s own existence conveyed without a SINGLE word of dialogue spoken. Now that's the power of cinema if I've ever seen it!

[lllivia]

They look so tiny I wanna carry them all in my pocket

[the-great-kraken]

big fan of Weird small towns. i need more fantasy and horror stories set in small towns because it hits every time

[paladibun]

Fellas, is it gay if

[artiststarme]

The Corroded Coffin guys could always count on Eddie to write hardcore songs full of angst, songs that could make anyone feel something. It’s what made them such a hit to the drunks at The Hideout. After everything that happened over Spring Break, allegedly or otherwise, they expected to bear witness to the angstiest songs they could imagine. They thought they would hear tunes wrought with betrayal, heartache, pain, and anger.

Imagine their surprise when they came back to practice to a bunch of love songs.

Gareth could only stare at Eddie blankly while he demonstrated the new song on his guitar. He didn’t know what the hell he was hearing. Grant was glaring at the Warlock like the soft notes had personally offended him. Jeff was nodding along sagely to the beat of the music, always an ally to Eddie even when he was confused at the situation.

And Steve Harrington, the newest addition to join band practice, was sat in a metal folding chair looking at Eddie like he hung the stars. He’d never been serenaded before and the fact that it was Eddie doing it? It only made Steve love him even more.

[brenninthetaylorverse]

fine, you want to know the truth? I'll tell you the truth.

if you were a teacher, I would fail your class, take it over and over again until you notice me. if you were a waiting room, I would never see a doctor, I would sit there with my first aid kit and bleed. I wanna be the power ballad that lifts you up and holds you down, I wanna be the broken love song that feeds your misery and I can wish all that I want but it won't bring us together. plus, I know whatever happens to me, I know it's for the better. and when broken bodies are washed ashore, who am I to ask for more, more, more? but you're breathing in my open mouth, you're that gun in my lips that will blow my brains out. I wanna make you drive all night just because I said "maybe you should come over". wanna make you fall in love as hard as my poor parents teenage daughter. she'll be the best you ever had if you let her. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better. know its for the better.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

You're mine now, old man.

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[bebx]

me when people say Sweeney Todd and Henry Creel are just “cold-blooded villains” who do bad things only for pleasure and when people totally ignore the depth and the complexity of their characters as well as the trauma and the abuse both characters went through that turned them into these “monsters”

in this essay I will

[nobeerreviews]

At night we are all strangers, even to ourselves.

-- Alexander McCall Smith

(Cluj, Romania)

[galina]

An autumn Sunday in East London: cobble stones and terraces—the air is grey but warm, muggy—the flower market heaving with beautiful people in their shiny shoes, long coats, sweater vests, tiny dogs—calla lilies in hoards—a band and a tap dancer perform outside the pub which is just opening its doors—cyclists lazily skirt round corners past people with no plans, who are hanging around outside the café waiting for a coffee, sharing a cigarette, a bit of quiet conversation, perfect people-watching