#augh brain moment

[kelocitta]

What a worthless animal

[essektheylyss]

I was personally assaulted (honorific) by this essay on ambition. It's very good.

[gen-0]

Okay I might be the only one seeing this but hear me out-

Look at how he’s looking at Amy right now, a slightly sad expression with his ears flopping forward, wanting to comfort her

But then….

She closes her eyes, and he lets every emotion scatter across his face, he looks at her with such a soft expression as he hold out his hand to try to comfort her

But as soon as Amy opens her eyes, that soft expression is gone, as if a wall was built up, and the hand begins to drift away, as if he doesn’t want her to know just how much he cares about her

[wrizard]

some thoughts regarding john irving standing with his mouth agape on a busy sidewalk in front of a busker, having an epiphany

imagine with me john irving. he is exhausted. he is overwhelmed. he has worked too many hours in a row. he is under an exceptional amount of pressure from his family to return home to their town and their church, now that he's come crawling back from the dream of a simple farming life that collapsed under his feet, leaving him and his brother both half-dead and cowed. his boss is... complicated. everything in the city is too loud and too crowded and far too chaotic.

he misses elphie, he misses his family, and the more time he spends with the few people he can call his friends, the more acutely he can feel the way they neatly sidestep topics when they talk -- george will laugh and change the subject, ned will look away, no one will meet his eyes, and it feels like everything has felt in his whole life repeated once again. he's doing it wrong, he's said it wrong, he's wrong he's wrong he's wrong.

he's buried his hands in his pockets to keep them from tapping, and he bites back a flinch every time another body brushes past; it's not normally so busy, but he's been politely shoved out of the office for an early weekend -- "a proper break," mr crozier had insisted -- and the mid-afternoon crush is suffocating. it's like he's never seen so many people in one place.

then over car horns and the beeping alert of the crossing lights, over a hundred thousand feet on pavement, he hears it -- a song he remembers, faintly, from decades ago, as a child, one he pulled from a pile of ancient sheet music and taught himself to play on the detuned stand-up piano his mother kept in the back room, alone for once amid the constant press of family and noise and church.

"'tis the song, the sigh of the weary," comes a pure, sweet baritone, somehow familiar, with a jangle of steel-string guitar close behind. "hard times, hard times, come again no more --"

over the crowd he spots a blond head, and a face he knows, and he almost stumbles --

little tommy hartnell, barely twenty, an island in the mad rush of people, clutching at the neck of a battered guitar, eyes half-closed as beauty falls from his mouth.

john freezes. someone bumps him from behind, and he nearly stumbles, but he's caught in the soft sway of tommy's movement, the way the sun catches in his hair. he looks so much like his brother -- they share the same nose, the same eyes, the same patchy facial hair, and he remembers how tommy had stood, strong, fragile, at the front of the room at the memorial, and how tommy thanked them for their generosity. he'd said something about moving back in with his family, john thinks, because they'd shared a home, and without the income there was no way he could keep the apartment on his own. but their family wasn't here. wasn't supposed to be here. they were -- overseas?

tommy lifts his head, and shakes the long fringe of his hair out of his eyes. john can't look away. he's so much thinner than he was all those months ago. he's playing so beautifully. he sings like honesty, and like truth; slightly rough at the edges, but transcendant all the same. at his feet sits a large, dirty backpack, stuffed full, with a bedroll and coat tied scout-tight to the base.

john thinks suddenly of the empty spare room in his apartment. he thinks of music, and the divine beauty of mathematical frequencies, and the ecstasy of singing. he thinks of the tiny rainbow pin tommy wore to the memorial, and the way john's father shook his head and looked away even on his deathbed when john tried to tell him the truth of himself, and how even in a city this crowded he feels scraped hollow with sick loneliness. he thinks of how he hasn't sat at a piano in nearly five years.

he thinks: he wants to sing again.

[greasydumbfuck]

also just for the record. no matter how much utterly stupid shit i say or draw about him, frank actually makes me so deeply sad. this old man should be picking up his grandkids but he cant. i think about him too much and im so sad

[crookedlyinnernightmare]

i wonder what it would do to you?

[azoosepted]

slamming my hear on the fucking table auh

the song fit them too well bruh.

[linkedin-offficial]

bloom forth

[skunkes]

[blatantlyhidden]

guys are u mad at me be honest

[thecityofdoors]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SOLIDER!!!!!

[mangopazte]

HE IS SO IMPORTANT TO ME….HIS LIL HOPS….

[volfoss]

the worst part of doing this analysis is i have all the scripts in front of me. but as a guy who doesnt normally look for scripts, i was kind of struggling to find things outside of the unaired pilot so poked around some threads and. inexplicably theyre all on genius.com. its a nightmare world for ME

[hollowsart]

man.. I remembered powwows and I really wish I could go to one again, but all the smaller ones just.. quit. There's no more powwows here in my state. the only one that is possible to go to takes a good few hours to get there, Red Earth up in Oklahoma.. :( I miss the sights, the sounds, the smells, and the food.. What I would give to have fry bread again..

I miss so bad getting to browse the beautiful jewelry, clothes, accessories, the beautiful handcrafted toys/figures and special hand carved gemstones (which were used for the jewelry, too, the stones were usually shaped like animals, they were so pretty..).. Getting to see the art, the paintings and drawings that people would be selling as well.

:( I miss it so much. it was always such an experience, no matter how small it was. the smell of the burning sage and other incense and stuff.. it was so nice, nothing else like it!

getting to see the performances.. hear the stories and listen to people talk and explain things about the culture and meanings behind the wares they've made and are selling, and so so much more..

[riddlerosehearts]

🥺🥺🥺🥺