#flâneuring

[flaneur001]

One step Closer

Pairings- Sylus x Fem!Reader

Tags- Fluff

Word count- 1700

Sylus had never seen you cry before. There were moments. Of raw emotion splitting through your anger and brimming like dark clouds, a rumbling oncoming storm, reflected in your eyes. Yet it never followed by rain as he expected. 

You would excuse yourself and hide away until the storm passed. Not letting him have the satisfaction of seeing you at your lowest. And that always left Sylus reeling. Making him feel a dull twinge in his chest, knowing that you don’t trust him enough to touch that vulnerable part of yours. Not yet.

But he left you be. His snarky kitten, licking her wounds in private. And when you returned, emotionally recharged, with that cheeky biting facade, he welcomed you back. Never addressing what had passed. It was an unspoken agreement between you and him. And he respected that. 

Besides, Sylus was never one to hit where it hurts. 

Where’s the fun in messing with the weak?

If he wanted to fight, he needed his kitten to give back in equal measure. With her claws out and her hackles raised.

One late evening, he barged in his mansion. Waves of frustration and anger rippled through him. He made quick work of his jacket, shrugging it off his shoulders, nimble fingers undoing the first three buttons of his shirt, as he bounded towards the bar in his study. His head throbbed just thinking about the mess that the deal had turned out to be. 

Gods, He needed a drink.

The hue of his decor reflected on the floor to ceiling window, painting the city outside crimson. He stood before it, taking in the signs of life spread like little shiny dots lining across the streets, meditating, a soft calm washing over his senses with each sip of the whiskey burning down his throat.

When the last notes of the song playing on his vinyl crescendoed, he put his glass down. Suddenly noticing the silence in the mansion. You were staying over this weekend, and while Sylus loved the company of his own thoughts, and the voice of solitude, his curiosity piqued. For as much as you’d like to think that you were the picture of poise, he knew what you really were. A radiant ball of energy. A noisy little Kitten.

Folding his sleeves up to his forearms, he refilled his glass. The amber liquid sloshed, faintly splishling onto his slender fingers, as he pushed open his study door and strained his ears for any sign of chaos in his house. 

Nothing. He could’ve dropped a pin and would still hear it echo in this moment. This made him nervous. He methodically checked every nook and cranny until he stopped outside your bedroom. 

Well, it was his guest bedroom, but he liked to think of it as yours. It was full of your belongings, and spare clothes. And he would never admit it, but some days when you weren’t able to visit the N109 zone, he would quietly slip in your room and spend the evening there. Placating himself with the soft scent of your perfume lingering in the sheets. 

In his mind he had given you a place to come back to. A home away from home.

Dull chatter reached his ears, followed by occasional sniffles and sobs. He stood straighter, a faint crease pinching his brows, his shoulders squared, getting instantly on guard. Fingers clenching around the glass, he hesitantly pushed open the door. A sliver. Just enough to make sure you were okay. But he simply wasn’t prepared for the sight before him.

Three heads, huddled together on the couch. The room was swathed in pitch darkness, save for the flickering, colorful glare of the TV illuminating the occupants. 

He relaxed, rolling his eyes in an I-can’t-believe-what-I’m-seeing manner. An amused curiosity translated into a feline-like grin on his lips and he watched, leaning on the doorframe, taking leisurely sips of his drink.

You were sat in the centre, sandwiched between Luke and Kieran on either side, holding a big popcorn bucket on your lap. Three hands blindly groped in the bucket for the salty treat, munching and mumbling, quiet comments about the movie playing on the screen.

By the looks of it, Sylus guessed it was a typical romantic tragedy. And he had walked in during the climax. The hero was laid across the heroine’s lap, bruised, coughing blood, muttering his final dying words and you choked, crying up a river as Luke and Kieran consoled you with wads of tissues and coos of “there-there” complete with soothing pats on the back.

It was certainly…something

Being the character he is, Sylus sneaked up, tiptoeing towards the couch. He was giddy. Or maybe it was the alcohol in his system, but suddenly he had this urge. Of picking you up and spinning you around. To press kisses onto those tear stained cheeks. 

He had missed you.

“Never thought I’d see the day when I catch the brave hunter crying over…fiction” He drawled.

His chin was placed on your shoulder, subtly breathing in gulps of your scent. Nose occasionally pressing against your pulse, which was going crazy under the vibrations of his deep baritone.

You flinched, almost toppling the bucket of popcorn on the floor. Bless Kieran, for the last minute save.

Luke paused the movie and the trio turned around with sheepish sputtered greetings.

“Hey-hey Boss—”

“Didn’t expect you home so early—”

“We were just killing time—”

“Hush” He intoned, eyes piercing straight into yours as wispy tendrils of his evol snatched the remote from the coffee table and turned off the TV. 

All he needed was a sharp raise of his brow for Luke and Kieran to go scampering out the room, letting the heavy set door shut close behind them.

The room was bathed in complete darkness now. You stood there hugging yourself, suddenly very self conscious about the tears still wet on your cheeks. 

“Sylus…”

“Yes, Sweetie?”

He stepped closer, not needing any light to sense your presence. He was comfortable in the dark. 

You stepped back, until your legs hit the couch, effectively cornered. You chewed at your bottom lip, feeling him close the distance between you. His arms came to rest on either side of you, caging you, holding the back of the couch as he leaned down. His presence today was vivid. Strong. Masculine. A heady mix of Alcohol, sweat, and his cologne.

You gulped, as you felt his fingers trail down your arm in a slow caress. His face was nestled into the crook of your neck again. Breathing, soft puffs of whiskey warm breaths across your hypersensitive skin, leaving prickles of goosebumps in its wake.

Your eyelids fluttered, head ever so subtly craning to allow him better access, when your eyes snapped open. He had entwined your hands, threading his fingers in that very Sylus manner. But what made a soft laugh of disbelief escape your lips, were the wads of tissues he was pressing into your palm.

“I could most certainly help, but…” He trailed off.

He didn’t need to finish his sentence for you to know what he was implying. He knew.

Months of this game of cat and mouse and he had read you like an open book. He had caught onto your discomfort about crying in front of him. Your hesitance about sharing your weak side with him.

He had witnessed your anger, red hot and destructive. Your laughter, dipped in shades of soft pastel hues. Your sadness, crippling, veiled under the gossamer glooms of blue. You had shared too much already. Given away bits of yourself too easily.

But your tears? He wasn’t allowed to see them. Not yet. 

Why?

Because you weren’t ready.

To be so honest with him. To give away that last piece that would chain you to him. Because if he left, wouldn’t that leave you empty? 

You would be colorless. Dull. Meaningless.

For in the end, they all leave. What makes him any different?

He left your embrace. Putting a little distance between your bodies, not far, but not too close either. In the dark you could faintly see the outline of his head turn away. And your heart jolted.

Picking up the rhythm in a mad dance. It thumped harshly across your chest, making you worry that he’d be able to listen to it in the silence enveloping the room.

In his rough but clumsy manner he was giving you space. Handing you the reins to control whatever this was that you shared with him. He was allowing you to hide your emotions in the dark while he waited. A show of patience, so unlike him.

You wiped your cheeks. Glad for the darkness, hiding the stupid smile refusing to leave your face, and the flush crawling up your neck. He was dangerous for your weak heart.

After a moment of awkward shuffling, Sylus turned around, heading towards the door. Feeling the dull staccato of rejection ringing in his ears he was about to pull the door open—when he felt two arms snake around his waist. 

You rested your head on his broad back and held him. Nuzzling, breathing in his cologne and listening to his sharp breaths, you stayed like that. Quiet and content in the dark.

“Sylus…”

“Yes, Kitten?” He husked, voice scratchy and deep.

“Thank you…”

“Well, if you really are that thankful, there are other ways of showing your gratitude” He teased, and you could picture his typical smirk, and playful red eyes, blinking up a storm of quick excited swoops in your belly.

“Don’t push it” You tightened your hold around his waist in an empty threat. A smile blossoming across your cheeks, after the soft shower of rain.

“Alright” he put his hand over yours and sighed. 

Basking in this simple moment, his earlier sour mood long forgotten, he stood grinning. No amount of great deals would ever stand close to this little victory.

One day you will let him see every single aspect of you. Let him collect the pieces to the puzzle named you. One day he will have you…the complete you.

And when he does, he will never let go.

[flaneuresse]

untitled by dailydoseofjess on Flickr.

[is-the-19thcentury-man-okay]

Rating: CUTE!

This street-wise flâneur of mid-century is doing what he does best: classic flânerie including fashionably strolling about in an ostentatious manner, smoking a cigar, and perhaps expressing a form of protest against bourgeois norms through "a counter-doctrine of inefficiency and uselessness — of which their flânerie was merely the most performative, emblematic expression."

This could be problem behaviour in some 19th century men, but the Parisian flâneur is only expressing natural instincts. Charles Baudelaire was an authority on this type of man, whom he called l'observateur passionné. Gavarni also sketched a flâneur.

[ensoledadminido]

[less-ismore]

Germaine Dulac, Celles qui s'en font (film still), 1930. (Youtube)

Two-part film presented as Dulac’s “cinegraphic impressions” based on two French realist song recordings made famous by Fréhel in this discophilic age: “Toute seule” (All alone) and “À la dérive” (Drifting). “

[clove-pinks]

Can't stop thinking about Achille de Gas in this portrait by his older brother—no longer a baby midshipman but all grown up in c. 1868-1872.

The description from the Minneapolis Institute of Art calls Achille a "dapper flâneur", but it's also hilariously critical of him:

Achille himself was something of a pretentious do-nothing, frequently running up debts and engaging in scandalous behavior. (He shot and wounded the husband of a former lover in front of the Paris stock exchange.)

[Edgar] Degas portrays Achille leaning on an umbrella, twisting his hip and pushing his chest forward to emphasize the studied nonchalance of his half-buttoned coat. The sketch is a study for the male spectator in the foreground of the painting At the Races. With eyes downcast and striking a self-consciously debonair pose, the fellow is clearly more interested in being seen than in the action behind him.

[walker-diaries]

[priest-iuput]

A new visual language

[ms-myself]

J’ai couru, dit la petite vieille, en déposant son sac. J’avais tellement hâte d’arriver. C’est bien vrai ce que tu m’as écrit dans ta lettre?

— Bien sûr, dit l’autre. Tu vas voir par toi-même. Viens.

Elle ouvre la porte de la petite cour.

Et les deux amies regardent le lilas qui a refleuri encore une fois !

[monstrouscrew]

our suggested posts on insta: dolls, monster high dolls, ooak, monster high dolls... Will f*king Ramos 😆😆😆

(we swear we really didn't like the band 'nough. zuckerbrains, more marine life, please)

[flaneur001]

Home

Leon x GN reader x Redacted (Leon and Redacted belong to @14dayswithyou)

Fluff and Angst

You swung open the building door, breathing a grateful gulp of fresh air after being holed up all day in the office. Fresh being an overstatement, because the air was mediocre, and on good days. Stretching your limbs, you lingered, taking in your surroundings with tired eyes. 

A forest of concrete, as far as your vision reached. Rows after rows of buildings, small houses, and shops sat clustered on this street. The car horns, and the general cacophony of a busy neighborhood had become white noise to you. Begrudgingly acquainted with city life now. A far cry from Corland Bay. Your hometown felt so distant, wrapped in the salty breeze and cozy charm of its memories. 

The beach, the library, the playground, the lake, your old haunts, and…and…what else

You closed your eyes, heaving in a deep sigh and exhaled. Not today. You wouldn’t go down that road.

The evening sun had already slipped past the horizon, letting its final wisps linger like flickering embers in the sky. 

Its crimson, golden, orange hues, shone like faint, still wet brush strokes on the edges of a black canvas. You had a feeling that it was going to be a dark night. The kind with no stars in sight. Perfect for the Halloween enthusiasts, who had littered the pathway of your neighborhood with various kinds of carved pumpkins sporting jarring, lopsided mocking smiles.

It was late. You were late. Or maybe you had miscalculated. Maybe you should’ve left your office earlier—made some excuse, should’ve faked sickness. Anything really, just to avoid this crowd of people that were already out and about. Donning costumes, gnarly makeup, laughing and hollering. The kids, high on sugar, little demons slipped past the grasp of exhausted parents; who flailed behind them zombie-like, carrying fluorescent orange pumpkin baskets, overflowing with an array of candies.

You stood out, in your disheveled clothes and messy hair, walking amongst the dead and undead. Or perhaps you fit right in, with the way people walked past you, without a sparing glance. A ghost. An invisible specter. Didn’t really need a costume for that.

You looked down, suddenly overcome with this unnamed feeling at the pit of your stomach. You pulled at the ends of your sleeves and hastened your pace. Eyes stinging with a slow pressure that built somewhere deep inside your chest. A dull persistent ache. 

You turned a corner striding blindly—relying more on muscle memory than your sense of direction—towards your apartment building. 

Reaching inside, you mashed the elevator button, repeatedly abusing it, as if willing the old elevator to appear by force. The tacky music grated more on your nerves today.

With a ding, you stepped out. Feet trudging up to your door and stopping in front of it. Yours was the only one to not have a candy basket placed outside. The corridor was deserted too. Silent in the face of the festivities.

For all your fervor to get home, here you were, in a weird stare down with your apartment door. Clutching the key tightly between your thumb and forefinger, you found yourself hesitant, almost appalled by the idea to go inside. 

With a weary sigh you rested your back against the door and slid down it. Sitting in a huddle on the floor. 

What was it really?

Yet you knew the answer to it already.

Fear. It was fear of what you’ll see when you unlock your apartment and walk in. Or more so, how you’ll feel. Dark room, a small dining table with a single chair, pushed into a cramped corner of your compact kitchen. And a withered bouquet of red chrysanthemums—sent by him, weeks ago— that you didn’t have the heart to discard. It sat wilted and droopy, placed in a cut off plastic bottle for lack of a glass vase. Scattered, sparse furniture and blank gray walls. A visual representation of your own emotions really. Cold. Lonely.

You had never bothered to decorate your studio, afraid that if you let this place feel like a home, it’ll be permanent. So you lived like this. Split in halves. With the other dwelling happily somewhere, in that time, frozen and framed in a cute picture that sat on your nightstand. You and Leon. On a summer-y afternoon, running barefoot across the sandy stretches of the beach. 

You closed your eyes, picturing his topaz ones twinkling at you in mischief as he chased after you, amidst playful shrieks and raucous laughter. Hands coming to wrap around your waist as he spun you and dragged you into the embrace of the tides. 

You scoffed, tasting the salt of that balmy ocean on your lips, brushing the traitorous tear that rolled down your cheek, with the back of your hand. At last you had lost to the wave of nostalgia that had been threatening to consume you all day. Holidays made you particularly homesick. And it didn’t help that you were miles apart. That you missed his stupid smile, when he called you by that goofy nickname.

You chewed at your bottom lip, contemplating, debating. When your phone screen lit up catching you off guard, making you almost drop it in surprise.

You stared at the caller ID, dumbfounded.

‘Oarfish’ it read. 

“Leon? What are the odds…” You mumbled, clearing your throat and forcing on a smile, hoping that some cheeriness masks your heavy voice.

 Your fingers toyed with the white beads of your bracelet, thumbing the little fish charm dangling from it. A nervous tic, a comforting fidget. Matching with your childhood friend.

“Heyyy Darl! Miss me?” Leon chirped, voice a bright ray of sunshine splitting through the stormy gray cloud that lingered over your head.

“You know, I’ve got better things to do.” You replied, teasing, imagining the smile etched on the brunet’s face.

“Oh yeah? Better things to do, you say,” Leon intoned. “More important than missing your best mate? Or wishing him a happy Halloween? I’m hurt, Sunfish.” He let out an exaggerated huff, and you could picture the pout he was sporting.

You closed your eyes, chewing the inside of your cheek, feeling that gnatty bit of guilt prick at your heart. It was true. You had been avoiding talking to him. Lying to yourself. Blaming it on your busy work hours, or the timezones. But in reality you knew why. You know why.

“I’m here now aren’t I?” 

“Let’s not forget who called whom first, alright?”  He retorted, playful banter masking the tinges of accusation and hurt in his voice.

“Fine,” you relented, apologetic and awkward,”Happy Halloween Oarfish”

“See, it’s that easy.” Leon chuckled, “Happy Halloween to you too, Darl.” 

You could hear his breaths, soft and steady. The occasional rustle of sheets told you he was in bed. 

A beat passed, and he mumbled, “Wish you were here”

You opened your eyes again, head lulling back to rest at the door of your apartment. Your fingers tightened around the fish charm, tugging at it, just like his words tugged at the tangled mess of your emotions. 

Me too

“I—How have you been?” You exhaled, skirting past the topics that would make you throw every caution to the wind and pack your bags and buy the tickets to the next flight, just so you can see his stupid face and—

Leon smiled, catching onto your miserable attempt at deflecting. No heart to hearts happening tonight. Got it. 

“Same old me” he swallowed, shifting to sit in a more relaxed position, fingers drawing abstract patterns on the sheets.

“What about you? Got any plans for tonight? Any wild Halloween bashes to attend?” He joked.

It was your turn to smile now. Sensing the protectiveness and helplessness that he tried to hide behind callous quips.

“Pfft! Oh you know me! A wild party animal, having orgies left and right—“

“Hang on, wait, did I accidentally ring Teo?” He snorted.

“What, so is he the only one who can be wild?” You grumbled in faux indignation.

“Wild? My little sunfish?” he giggled, “Please, the wildest thing you ever did was winning that Christmas bingo, by nicking my grandma’s winning card. And let’s not forget, you swiped it while she was out cold after three glasses of cheap wine”

“Let’s not forget who goaded me into it—“

“And I felt like such a proud dad doing it—but then, let’s not forget who cried all night after, thinking they’d landed on Santa’s naughty list, and would never get another pressie in their life” He laughed now. A full bellied joyful laugh that made something flutter in your stomach. Making you feel weirdly proud that you were the reason behind it.

“Geez, alright! You win; Teo can be the wild one in the group. I guess I don’t mind being the goody-two-shoes.” You grinned, then added, “the only voice of reason.”

“Uh huh, but you’ve always been the cute one in the group, haven’t you?” he hummed, casually and carelessly. 

Recklessly you’d say. Frowning at the rapid thump of your heart.

You let out a dismissive snort and brought your knees to your chest, hugging them. The cold marble of the lobby floor, making you shiver a little.

“And you, the nagging parent” 

“Tut tut, is this how you’re gonna talk to your daddy?” He snickered

“You did not just say that.”  

*** 

Hours passed. The conversation hopping from light hearted banter, to reminiscing, to talking about the mundane. 

You were stiff and achy all over from sitting on the floor for so long, yet you didn’t want to end this conversation here. Didn’t want to go back to the silence and the voice of your own thoughts. 

“So then, I told my mate to stop being such an arse, and suck it up. I mean who doesn’t get a few sprains during a tough game of volley, right?” Leon continued.

“Mmhm” You mumbled in response, forcing your eyes to stay open.

A pause, and you heard a soft ‘pfft’ of an amused laugh on the other end.

“You sleeping on me, Darl?” Leon whispered, “Am I boring you?”

“Huh? No, no no” you sat up straighter, rubbing your eyes, “I’m here, I’m listening”

Leon smiled gently, as if you could see him. His hand was cramping now, holding up the phone for the last few hours. He knew you were enjoying this conversation. It hadn’t slipped his notice how you’ve been avoiding him. And perhaps, he had let you. 

You have always been like this. Guarded. And Leon wasn’t one to barge. If you were the kind to build up walls, he was the kind to set up a camp on the other side and wait. Wait through all the seasons of your emotions. Wait until you open up and let him in.

“Sunfish?” He hummed, a soft breath in your ear. A hesitant tap on your walls.

“Leon?” You exhaled, holding up your hand in front of you, as if reaching out to him. The bracelet tinkled, catching the light on its beads and shining like seashells in the sun.

Another pause. You listened. To his breathing, to the susurrus of his sheets, straining your ear to hear the million unspoken things he was too considerate to say. And you, too oblivious to figure out.

“I wanted to say *chrrk* want to *chrrk* meet *chrrk* miss you” His voice broke and garbled as the connection waxed and waned.

You lifted the phone off your ear and checked the signal. 

Full bars. Huh, strange.

“Leon, can you repeat that? Your voice keeps cutting out” you asked, standing up to get a better signal.

“Huh? I was saying *chrrk* see you *chrrk* Sunfish—”

Before you could say anything else, the call ended abruptly with a sharp beep.

Your fingers hovered over the redial button, but you were interrupted by a slew of messages that dinged on your phone.

Oarfish- “I was saying, it’s pretty late. You should catch some Zs Darl. We can chat plenty tomorrow.”

Oarfish- “Sweet dreams!”

Oarfish- “PS- I might’ve sent something your way, and no I won’t take it back. Enjoy! xoxo”

Just as you began to type out a response, the elevator at the end of the lobby dinged. You heard footsteps approach your door. You checked the time

1:00 am 

Puzzled, you saw a delivery boy look at the receipt in his hand and then scan the numbers on the apartment doors. With a flourish he stopped before you and held out a package along with a clipboard for you to sign.

You quickly signed, took the rather heavy box, and walked into your apartment, closing the door behind you with a light kick.

Impatient like a kid on Christmas, you tossed your bag and coat on the couch, flung the keys on the table, and grabbed a knife from the kitchen to open the mysterious box sent by Leon.

Brushing aside the protective wrapping, you let out a surprised laugh.

“Oh Leon, you little goofball.” You murmured in fond appreciation as you studied the contents inside.

There were candies— all your favorite kinds—that expensive bottle of perfume you’d raved about to Leon once, a small string bag full of seashells, and Polaroids. Stacks and stacks of them. Different pictures of you, through the years. Your life, captured in perfect squares.

But that wasn’t all. As you rifled through the box, you realized the Polaroids were part of a display set: Fairy lights, clips, and a small tool box with an instruction manual. 

Yet what made you emotional, was the printed card that lay underneath it all. You smiled, reading the words through tear blurred eyes—

“Since you can’t be home this year, I brought the home to you”

And it was true. The seashells, the pictures, and the candies, from that old store near the beach, were like bits of Corland bay packed in a box. 

Giddy you fished out the manual and began reading through the instructions, fingers already untangling the fairly lights. With a gleam in your eye, you approached the blank gray wall in your living room. 

Maybe, just maybe, this can be your home away from home.

***

The dull noise of the metal guitar leaked through the pair of headphones buried somewhere under the mess of clothes on the bed. The chair creaked as they rocked, back and forth, back and forth. Long legs crossed and propped against the table in front of them. 

It was pitch dark. Yet their azure eyes seemed sharp; staring raptly, unblinking, at the bright glare of the large computer screen before them. 

“A little to the left”

“No, it’s still uneven”

They occasionally mumbled, amusedly speaking to the person flitting about on the screen. Slender fingers with black painted nails, twitched as if they wanted to reach out and take the task from your hands, and do it for you.

Later, then. When you’re asleep. 

He watched, until you stretched and yawned. Tired feet taking you to your bedroom.

They rose then too. Unconsciously mimicking your movements. He slipped under the covers, in sync with you. Eyes flitting up to the Polaroids adorning their wall. Similar to the ones you put up, moments ago.

They smiled conspiratorially; pleased at the treats he had shared with you. Pleased at his neat trickery.

They didn’t even need to look at the screen anymore, to know your nightly habits. 

Changing, Brushing your teeth, hair, fluffing your pillows, lifting the end of your duvet and snuggling up all the way to the left side of your bed. The one lined up against the wall. 

He hummed, husky and low. A dulcet timbre, singing the beginnings of an old lullaby. His hand came to rest at the wall separating you. A soft tap. A yearning caress.

Redacted sighed, letting the sleep take him over. They didn’t care, so long as you were near. They were content. They were home.

[flaneuresse]

parc de la ciutedella by jessica on Flickr.

[spectre-ship]

considering followup projects; I have some different fabrics I wanna work with. currently thinking I'll start off making a work blouse with oatmeal linen, something like these examples from the Merchant Tailor Museum:

albeit one with a rectangular body and off-the-shoulder gathered sleeve, so that I don't have to worry about drafting a curve for the armscye (I've seen examples of work blouses with sleeves like that in ambrotypes and daguerreotypes.) so it will be a bit of a weird cross between features from different examples of the same kind of garment, but certainly still nothing beyond imagining.

[ensoledadminido]

Mark Strand · 89 nuvens · Tradução: Jorge Sousa Braga · Desenhos: Avelino Sá · Edição de Flâneur. 100 exemplares impressos. Abril de 2024

2. Words about clouds are clouds themselves

As palavras sobre nuvens são elas próprias nuvens

6. A cloud is a season of white

Uma nuven é uma estação branca

9. The museum of clouds shows only Snow White

O museu das nuvens mostra apenas Neve Branca.

57. A humble cloud will never rumble

Uma nuvem humilde nunca faz barulho

[less-ismore]

Chloé Galibert-Laîné, Flânerie 2.0., 2018.

[foundationsofdecay]

Plini - Flâneur