#im torn.

[wetdogblog]

How does tumblr feel about Primrose

(edit: some folks are asking if this is taxidermy. This is a real living dog, I promise)

[jedimastre]

hello there ... ˢʰᵒᵘˡᵈ ᶦ ᵈᵒ ˢᵒᵐᵉ ʷᵒʳᵏ ʰᵉʳᵉ ᵒⁿ ᵒᵇᶦ ʷᵃⁿ ˀ

[absentmoon]

mutuals. does gibby sleep in elaborate luxurious silk garbs in shades of royal purples. or nude

[whsprings]

.

[bamsara]

Concept comic for a scene I'm writing for Trod

Takes place in the before-Shamura and mass dissention arc. I think the menticide mushrooms would react horrifically combined with godhood. Instead of seeing things that aren't real, they see real things they're not supposed to

[umblrspectrum]

i love learning cursive just to write text for exactly one character

[hinamie]

subject, specimen, spectacle;

should i say that you're dead?

[frenchublog]

[howboutsleep]

GWENDOLYN BOUCHARD PATHETIC LITTLE MEOW MEOW SHE THOUGHT SAW SOMEONE CARING ABOUT HER ENOUGH TO BRING HER ONE (1) CUP OF COFFEE AND TRANSFORMED INTO A PUDDLE OF GOO INSTANTLY

IT WAS IN FACT SO PATHETIC THE PERSON WHO CARED ABOUT HER ENOUGH TO SPECIFICALLY NOT BRING HER COFFEE TO LOOK AT HER REACTION GOT SO DUMBSTRUCK SHE LET HER HAVE THE COFFEE MEANT FOR SOMEONE ELSE

[wtfforged]

i wonder... how the others are doing... i hope no ones been killed. i wish i knew what happened.

[tibby-art]

wild life thoughts

[kiddokori]

forever reading it as Slayyyy~ (the princess)

this was so real to me i saw it so vividly

[cabinette]

What have I become? I'm the face of God, I'm my Father's son

[inkskinned]

for a while i lived in an old house; the kind u.s americans don't often get to live in - living in a really old house here is super expensive. i found out right before i moved out that the house was actually so old that it features in a poem by emily dickinson.

i liked that there were footprints in front of the sink, worn into the hardwood. there were handprints on some of the handrails. we'd find secret marks from other tenants, little hints someone else had lived and died there. and yeah, there was a lot wrong with the house. there are a lot of DIY skills you learn when you are a grad student that cannot afford to pay someone else to do-it-for-ya. i shared the house with 8 others. the house always had this noise to it. sometimes that noise was really fucking awful.

in the mornings though, the sun would slant in thick amber skiens through the windows, and i'd be the first one up. i'd shuffle around, get showered in this tub that was trying to exit through the floor, get my clothes on. i would usually creep around in the kitchen until it was time to start waking everyone else up - some of them required multiple rounds of polite hey man we gotta go knocks. and it felt... outside of time. a loud kind of quiet.

the ghosts of the house always felt like they were humming in a melody just out of reach. i know people say that the witching hour happens in the dark, but i always felt like it occurred somewhere around 6:45 in the morning. like - for literal centuries, somebody stood here and did the dishes. for literal centuries, somebody else has been looking out the window to this tree in our garden. for literal centuries, people have been stubbing their toes and cracking their backs and complaining about the weather. something about that was so... strangely lovely.

i have to be honest. i'm not a history aficionado. i know, i know; it's tragic of me. i usually respond to "this thing is super old" by being like, wow! cool! and moving on. but this house was the first time i felt like the past was standing there. like it was breathing. like someone else was drying their hands with me. playing chess on the sofa. adding honey to their tea.

i grew up in an old town. like, literally, a few miles off of walden pond (as in of the walden). (also, relatedly, don't swim in walden, it's so unbelievably dirty). but my family didn't have "old house" kind of money. we had a barely-standing house from the 70's. history existed kind of... parallel to me. you had to go somewhere to be in history. your school would pack you up on a bus and take you to some "ye olden times" place and you'd see how they used to make glass or whatever, and then you'd go home to your LEDs. most museums were small and closed before 5. you knew history was, like, somewhere, but the only thing that was open was the mcdonalds and the mall.

i remember one of my seventh grade history teachers telling us - some day you'll see how long we've been human for and that thing has been puzzling me. i know the scientific number, technically.

the house had these little scars of use. my floors didn't actually touch the walls; i had to fill them with a stopgap to stop the wind. other people had shoved rags and pieces of newspaper. i know i've lost rings and earring backs down some of the floorboards. i think the raccoons that lived in our basement probably have collected a small fortune over the years. i complain out loud to myself about how awful the stairs are (uneven, steep, evil, turning, hard to get down while holding anything) and know - someone else has said this exact same thing.

when i was packing up to leave and doing a final deep cleaning, i found a note carved in the furthest corner in the narrow cave of my closet. a child's scrawled name, a faded paint handprint, the scrangly numbers: 1857.

we've been human for a long time. way back before we can remember.

[llondonfog]

if i had a heart, i could love you

my undying gratitude and awe to the incredible @cozymochi for bringing to literal life my vision of ob!Lilia :] let's all wish him a pleasant time as he keeps a steadfast soldier's watch over the dreams of a human boy he no longer recognizes and yet he cannot bring himself to leave his side . . . whatever could that mean?

(please click for high-res, tumblr why do you try to keep us from exquisite art)