#john keating would be proud

[bazpitchs-violin]

todd speech kid headcanons part… five???

his senior year he ends up putting up every single event (di, hi, poi, po, pr, duo, oo, info)

so he goes to tournaments and in final rounds he’s like 6xe

neil is so proud of him because guys. he is SWEEPING

there is no reason for him to be doing this well except that he’s crazy /hj

when neil’s applying to colleges, todd gives him the lucky penny from his shoe

keating is definitely the speech coach at welton idk about you guys

when todd tries to take all of his events to the harvard invitational keating is like um todd are you sure and he’s like yeah. i’m sure. please. i know it’ll be a lot, but i can do it.

so he does

when it gets to awards, he finals/wins everything and it gets to the point where the person announcing it is like okay todd just stay up here haha

keating lovingly gives him shit after because they had to move so much shit around in the car for all his fucking awards

keating always works his pieces with him and it’s like the scene with the improv poem half of the time

todd’s blocking is always so fucking clean it’s wild

when todd graduates, keating gives him a notebook

[lesamis]

1810s dashboard but it's niche drama

💛 heartofanna Following

imagine cancelling someone for saying war is bad

🧵 sharethewoe Follow

#didn't expect better from w*rdsworth but some people i rly thought i could count on…… #anyway we will live to see this empire fall. can't stop history lol (via @heartofanna)

speaking as someone who was press ganged at the age of 17 to serve in his majesty's royal navy i couldn't be more grateful for your poem. young men like me are cannon fodder and you spoke for so many of us. fuck napoleon but fuck parliament even more.

86 notes

chatterpwned-deactivated78345629743

stable forgiving virtuous flourishing in my lane definitely not buying poison moisturized unbothered never been better

chatterpwned-deactivated78345629743

me when i lie

179302 notes

🏛 mynoseisfine Follow

Settling this once and for all. What does the public actually think about the Parthenon marbles debate:

🦉 realminerva Follow

lol i know it’s you lord elgin

🦉 realminerva Follow

like we joke and all but fully aside from the fact that removing the sculptures from greek soil was vulturine and opportunistic etc, it’s really just the tip of a frankly gigantic mountain of imperialist bullshit. let’s not pretend we haven’t been brutally killing hundreds who resisted oppression in india, LITERALLY BOMBED A NEUTRAL EUROPEAN CAPITAL, and embarrassed ourselves in the charge against napoleon for years now. pathetic ass empire & evil as hell to boot. @mynoseisfine the greeks who carved your marbles millennia ago would kick your tory ass so hard

3661 notes

🎀 emmawoodhousestan Follow

how do i still keep seeing thomas chatterton's final post being reblogged, wtf is wrong with you freaks??? he was seventeen it was tragic and horrible and happened ages ago. he was a kid just let him rest

294 notes

🍎 masque-off Following

callout post for @castleyeah @lordsidmouth @officialcoe @parliamentofficial: they oppress, murder and famish the british working people & also suck majorly

⛪ castleyeah Follow

sour cuz you’re unfit to have custody of your own kids huh

🍎 masque-off Following

proud to be the dad of a newborn who could already rend your pudding spine asunder with a mere glance

187 notes

🦆 mallardturner Following

finished this today 😊

44 notes

😎 chadeharold Follow

why is it always “you’re risking your life and legacy & will get yourself killed before the age of five and twenty” and never how was swimming the hellespont the hellespont looked fun was it fun

🎭 loved-joanna Mutuals

ohhh my god you swam the hellespont five years ago?? wooow should we tell everyone?? should we throw a party?? should we invite famous hero of greek myth leander who swam the hellespont

😎 chadeharold Follow

@loved-joanna look we never had any beef & don’t have to start this now. it’s cool that you’re sticking up for my ex, you guys were friends first, but just know that i’ve always trusted your opinion on my work & genuinely respect and admire you & would still be up for a collab whenever.

🎭 loved-joanna Mutuals

yea sure why don’t your lips collab with my ass

😎 chadeharold Follow

on it boss

1009 notes

#literally call me. down if you are

🍂 endymion Follow

sorry is it me or is the assassin who stabbed german bootleg wordsworth kinda…… 🥵

💄 biprincesscharlotte Mutuals

JOHN KEATS????????

2427 notes

#i'm p sure this is the author of lamia thirstposting on main??? help

🌾 huntsmanx Follow

romanticism this romanticism that why don’t you romanticise universal suffrage and rights for labouring people

🌾 huntsmanx Follow

anyone else in jail for seditious libel

🏹 axelaidtotheroot Mutuals

lmao i'm one of the “anyone else”s and i know you’re enjoying family visits and apparently some kind of cushy armchair situation, plus tons of books. try being in here as a spencean dude they won’t even let me learn how to write. worst of all some evangelical came by yesterday just to proselytize & put me “on the right path” fml

8341 notes

🗻 mounttambora Follow

y'all i don't feel so good :/

59 notes

[burningvelvet]

on percy shelley & human connection & coping through art

to set the mood of this post i must say i'm writing it really quickly on my phone over a bowl of pasta with bread & broccoli & some orange flavored sparkling water & im still dressed in my outdoor wintery clothes (all black, knee boots, wool, silver chains & rings, although i mostly prefer gold jewelry).

so anyway today i've been kind of sad over ppl not replying to my texts & my usual reaction is to say "ok, guess i'll kms, wah wah, cry cry" but this sort of passively cynical joking schtick has gotten old & i would rather occupy myself some other way instead of moping about failed connections or the difficulty of initiating contact with anyone or the struggles of modern socialization as a whole.

instead, i will read the works of percy shelley tonight, and think about how he struggled with all of this over 200 yrs ago. of how hard he struggled to make leigh hunt and lord byron collaborate with him on their journal the liberal, and how he struggled all his life to build a positive community even in spite of years of bullying, ostracization, and family strife - he often felt like giving up, and like human connection was impossible, but he never gave in to apathy and instead he continuously curated his ideal life by seeking out other like-minded people, even when he occasionally embarrassed himself in public or when others were decidely averse to him or lukewarm in their reception. john keats didn't entirely take to him when they met and some of keats' friends straight-up disliked percy for being weird, but percy (though scarcely knowing him) loved keats as a brother-poet nonetheless, was generous to him, wrote one of his masterpieces in his favor, and died with a copy of his poems in his pocket.

percy always reached out to others and was a loyal friend even when others disrespected him or ignored him or just simply didnt love him as much as he did them. his letters to lord byron show how reverent he was to his friend, and how his affection was never returned in quite the same gusto, but, while still trying to keep his self-respect, percy quelled his frustrations and continued his correspondence with byron regardless. percy acted as the mediator between byron and claire even when his stress was so high it weighed heavily on his health. he actively tried to choose to be positive even when the people around him were negative or miserable. like most writers back then, he sent his writing to his idols, and sought mentorship from people he admired, like william godwin and leigh hunt, and he continued to respect them even when they took advantage of him financially (moreso in godwin's case).

anyway what i mean to say is that whenever im feeling lonely or rejected or alienated or socially stupid or am just second-guessing my role in society or whatever whatever whatever, i cling to creativity/art/literature/etc. even harder than i regularly do, because thats what it exists for.

i knew a therapist (not one i saw as a patient, but someone i knew through mutual interests in media/the arts) who said that a certain musical performance we both loved probably saved way more lives than any single therapist ever has. - the performance in question was david bowie's tokyo 1990 live recording of rock n roll suicide, an anti-suicide song (its available on youtube, go watch it lol, he performs it with so much conviction).

any way even though at the end of his life shelley sometimes felt like he was failing to achieve his dream of building a utopian art commune - he actually did succeed in introducing several people to each other in ways that changed peoples lives. his friends jane williams and thomas jefferson hogg got married only through his mutual friendship. whole literary societies have been started in his honor - to this day there are conferences & whatnot that meet annually - his life & writing continues to inspire people and bring them comfort - & he would be extremely proud of that - any artist would. the main goal of any famous dead writer is basically to become the imaginary friend of their future readers & he accomplished that - even though all the time he was wracked with doubt/depression/suicidality/illness/chronic pain, etc. - as a political/philosophical radical, he realized that having hope is one of the most influential & radical things one can do - & i'm glad that, even though this is a person who died over 200 yrs ago, there is at least one person who really resonates with me - even though we're from different centuries, different continents, different sexes, etc. - it's helpful to have positive influences to look up to, especially when they've also struggled in similar ways as you. and although shelley was pretty privileged (rich englishman) he really did struggle a lot mentally & physically - his life was a chaotic mess - and he wasn't perfect at all - but i think he's still inspirational for my previously mentioned reasons - his ceaseless hope. the last poem he was working on was titled the triumph of life, even though he wrote it during a deep depression. the last poem he published in his lifetime was hellas, which he hoped would raise money for the cause of greek war of independence. from the poem:

"Life may change, but it may fly not;

Hope may vanish, but can die not;

Truth be veiled, but still it burneth;

Love repulsed, — but it returneth!"

[zipstick]

STOP asking yourself "would it be cringe to post this thing i made" and INSTEAD ask yourself "would John Keating be proud of me for sharing this piece of myself with the world". and the answer is ALWAYS yes. post that art. never stop creating. carpe diem.

[gardenerian]

@celestialmickey tag game tuesdays are good for the soul. ty for the tag macy and my loves @metalheadmickey + @energievie 🥳

name: melbert

age: get off my lawn

where are you from originally? north carolina, by way of tennessee

your go-to coffee, tea, or soda of choice: my blood is like 85% iced chai by now

your comfort film: hmm. depends on the mood? bright star is a go-to. ily, fictional john keats. the royal tenenbaums is another. and if six-hour miniseries count, then add bbc p&p to the list 🥰

how many siblings do you have? bleeerggghh. one? perhaps three? it's complicated.

if you could take a vacation anywhere, where would it be? listen. it's always ireland. unless i am not allowed to say ireland, in which case it's spain. or greece. or italy! or PEI. i just wanna TRAVEL.

last song you listened to: if i should fall from grace with god by the pogues (we're havin a real irish moment today ok lig sé tarlú)

do you believe in aliens? yes but i am NOT HAPPY ABOUT IT.

what about ghosts? see above

it’s 2am. you can’t sleep. you get up to get a snack. what is it? a classic pb&j often does the trick for me

and finally, share something you’ve done/made recently that you’re proud of: i spoke at a conference last week and my brain has been fully reprogrammed asjkdfh we're makin PLANS even though it is perhaps FOOLISH

feeling a little tag shy but tag me anyways and gimme all the deets. ty i look forward to being nosey 😇

[entityenchanted]

Dead Poets Society (1989)

Spoilers!

Trigger Warning: Suicide

O Captain! My Captain!

This movie was a lot of things inspiring, sorrowful, heart breaking and bittersweet.

Mr Keating teaches his students about the the importance of making our days count, the beauty and fun in expression through poetry and the regret in conformity.

Mr Keating: That the powerful play *goes on* and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?

In other terms also asking what is your purpose, why do you stay alive? The length of our existence is not set in stone so what will you do while you are here. I recommend checking out more quotes from: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0097165/characters/nm0000245

There is so much to be said and appreciate about this character and the positive formative role he played through the movie. I adore him and do wish to discuss him further.

I heard someone say that our brains grieve fictional characters the same real people and I concur.

Watching Neil's excitement on realizing he loved acting made me so happy, because it may have been for him finally finding clarity he didn't know he needed. He has lived in his father's accordance so long that even a play although brief brought him joy. When he delivered the news to Todd, I realized that he did not mind technicalities possibly blocking his dream. He just wanted to maybe for even a moment to live. To exist outside of his father's expectations and just have the freedom to choose.

And then he finally did it he played the role, his friends were there and supported him as their excited, goofy selves. But so was his father and when he entered the theater, I remember hoping Neil wouldn't fumble his lines or trip and then he did not. And I was somewhat puzzled and then I remembered:

Neil Perry: I'm trapped!

John Keating: No, you're not.

He wasn't trapped, on stage he was free and in that moment he knew that if this was his only chance he was going to make it count and he did. He really did and in a way I just feel so proud and happy for him.

The dead poets society was not just about Mr Keating, Neil, Todd, Knox, the school or their parents. It was about how all them and how they have impacted one another. As well as the pain of regret and questioning "What if?". What if Mr Keating had never come to the school?, what if Neil hadn't auditioned?, what if Todd never met him?, what if the Dead Poets Society was never formed in the first place?.

Would Neil have remained alive, would he and Todd been a couple or their will to break free from conformity never manifested?

In conclusion the members of the dead peots society deserved a better world, in which Neil's father was proud of him, in which Richard learned the impact of selflessness, in which Mr Keating wasn't the scapegoat for a selfish school system and finally in which Neil and Todd were together as writer and actor co existing happily.

[chaosnoirjpg]

From April 2023

//Things I’ve Learned//

- The planet Uranus was discovered in 1781. The Antarctica was not discovered until 1820.

- Three main theories that state how the universe had been created: big bang theory, pulsating theory, steady state theory.

- Disorganized Attachment styles:

- fearful energy

- desire closeness but fear intimacy

- may present as hot and cold

- can be impulsive and lash out or run away

- difficult trusting self and others

- high energy-low engagement

* Path for Healing:

- What needs to heal// mistrusting, self sacrificing, indecisive

- Values// certainty, acceptance, sacrifice, justice, fairness, empathy, trustworthiness

- Overestimate Risk/Underestimate Resources

- Wants closeness but withdraws due to assumptions about intentions

- Conditional assumptions//

- if i prepare and rehearse bad situations, then i will know what to do.

- If i sacrifice myself for others, they’ll see my as valuable.

- Core Beliefs// I am worthy because I exist. I am okay when I am breathing.

- Affirmations:

- I am safe

- i trust that i will use past experiences to make good decisions

- I am capable

- I can do hard things.

- I trust my judgment

- Rest is productive

- I am lovable

- it’s okay to tell ppl what i want and need.

- Self care is not selfish

- Values of healed and secure attachments

- growth, intuition, inner harmony

- Assertive

- Confident

- Peaceful

- @the.holistic.jedi// PRACTICES to Discern What Really Matters//

- Does their opinion of me reflect the Truth that I feel with my heart?

- Am I going to be upset about this 5 years from now?

- If I were to die tomorrow would I give a shit about what is being said? Or would I ignore it and find a way to enjoy myself?

- By the time you go through these internal questions you would have successfully redirected your attention away from the auto-reaction and as a result you’ll be in a place of power to respond to get the best out of that situation.

//Quotes//

- As you start to walk, the path will appear. ~ Rumi

- There is no road. The road is made by walking. - Antonio Machado

- I am profoundly enchanted by the flowing complexity in you. ~ John Keats

- You are as old as the universe, because matter can’t be created or destroyed. In the deepest level you are the universe experiment itself.

- The opposite of depression is expression

- Grief is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corner of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief is just love with no place to go ~Jamie Anderson

- There was no goodbye, just an absence, sudden, abrupt, and louder than any voice could be. ~ Edward Lee

- For the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house. They may allow us to temporarily beat hi at his own game, but they will never enable us to bring about genuine change. ~Audre Lorde

- If i accept the fact that my relationships are here to make me conscious instead of happy, then my relationships become a wonderful self mastery tool that keeps realigning me with my higher purpose for living. ~Eckhart Tolle

- You are always becoming.

- Be yourself in this big world. There will be no other you. @daymjuju

- @briannajahnelle: can’t keep a job, don’t wanna a job, fuck a job. I’m tired of working. I am tiered of the matrix. I make money by being myself.

- A grateful heart is a magnet for miracles.

- People don’t realize how much strength it takes to pull your own self out of a dark place mentally. So, if youv’e done that today or any day, I’ proud of you. ~The Open Invite

- Tap in and tune out. ~Lex, my sister

- A grateful heart is a magnet for miracles.

- The universe gives you what you are (strongly feeling/thinking) not what you ask for. So find what comes easiest to you and master it. ~Erykah Badu

- I accept the hear and now fully

- Spend your life loving. Not seeking love. Ocean need not seek water. ~ Dr. Jaiya John

- You couldn’t be here if stars hadn’t exploded because the elements weren’t created at the beginning of time. They were created in the nuclear furnaces of stars and the only way they could get into your body is if the stares were kind enough to explode. The stars died so that I could be here today. ~Lawrence M. Krause

- @Ayeshaophelia: The Principle of Resonance. the only time something can’t affect you is when you connect to that thing by identifying with it or absorbing the frequency of it by maintaining proximity to it. All the negativity in the world can only have an effect on your if you allow it to resonate with you. To be at peace in this world and have the best quality of health and happiness you need to be able to vibrate at the frequency of love and hold it regardless to the other things around you. What tends to make that difficult are the people we have in our lives by choice and by inevitability. Learning how to kindly decline useless emotions and hold the vibes of love is a skill that takes practice and patience but it’s worth it.

- Only do shit you believe in

- Are you living your dream?

- You know who’s gonna give you everything? Yourself.

- Sorry for having great tits and a correct opinions

- Don’t demand that things happen as you wish, but wish that they happen as they do happen, and you will go well. ~Epictetus, Enchiridion

- Our experiences are shaped by our perceptions(interpretations and your understanding). Change your perspective, change your life.

- “You can only go as far as you allow yourself to see.”

- there is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin

- I recognize the DIVINITY within me.

- This vessel is a lie, a shapeshifting beast, a lesson in fluidity

- the masculine mythologies while the feminine embodies

- the masculine is the state of endless potential and the feminine is potential realised.

- African Proverb: In the west they have watches. Here (in Africa) we have time. [Colonialsm will have you value being effecient with your time and making the most of it. However, we don't need to be efficient with out time we have time and it belongs to us.]

- I allow myself to take risks and try new things

- I am worthy of taking time to nurture my creativity

- I pursue my passions

- I am constantly evolving and expanding my creative abilities

- I surround myself with inspiration and ideas that fuel my creativity

- I release any negative thoughts or beliefs that do not serve me and choose to think positively

- As bone, so below, as within, so without, as the universe, so the soul. ~ Hermes Trismegistus

[virgin-martyr]

John Keats in a letter to Fanny Brawne (1820), “If I should die, I have left no immortal work behind me—nothing to make my friends proud of my memory—but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remembered.”

[chvrliesapcet]

ever since olivia rodrigo released her debut album, SOUR, i have been listening to it on repeat (totally not kidding). so, after seeing a girl on tiktok do something like this, but with the avengers, i was inspired to make this post. there you go:

the poets as olivia rodrigo’s songs.

trigger warning: mention of su*c*de and mental health issues.

brutal: all of them. they’re teenagers, insecure sometimes, trying their best, but sadly not living the teenage dream (what is it, that fucking teenage dream, anyway?). “if someone tells me one more time "enjoy your youth, " i’m gonna cry” and they can’t quit what they’re doing, because their parents would most likely be hurt. “and they'd all be so disappointed 'cause who am if, if not exploited?” they once recited the lyrics of this song as a poem, during one of their meetings, and they were all laughing their asses off. life at hell-ton is brutal, what can i say?

traitor: knox, of course. “god i wish that you had thought this through, before i went and fell in love with you” or “guess you didn’t cheat, but you’re still a traitor” just hit different for him. he thinks about chris when he listens to this song, that’s for sure..! we can’t really blame chris for knox falling in love with her though,, sorry buddy.

drivers license: knox, again. poor boy listens to this song while riding his bike, crying his eyes out. “but today i drove through the suburbs, crying 'cause you weren't around” chris isn’t with that blonde girl, she is that blonde girl. knox has never felt this way for no one, and it’s hard for him to imagine that chris is, well, doing okay without him. he thinks and talks about her all the time. “and all my friends are tired of hearing how much i miss you, but i kinda feel sorry for them 'cause they'll never know you the way that i do”

1 step forward, 3 steps back: todd. like many people (including me!) when he listens to this song, he doesn’t necessarily think of a past relationship (mostly because he has never dated anyone before neil). he thinks of his mental health struggles, such as his anxiety, instead. it’s hard, sometimes. he thinks he’s getting better, but then realizes he isn’t.. “got me fucked up in the head, boy. never doubted myself so much. like am i pretty, am i fun boy? i hate that i gave you power over that kinda stuff” need i say more? this song is as soft, but as sad, as he is.

deja vu: keating. this is.. kind of a joke, but only because i didn’t know who to pair this song with. john was an original member of the dead poets society, and knowing that now, other teenage boys are taking turns reading poetry, in the old indian cave, reminds him of his teenage years. “so when you gonna tell her that we did that, too? she thinks it's special, but it's all reused. that was our place, i found it first” olivia’s music isn’t the type of music he normally listens to, but after hearing students (the poets) talk about her album, during his class, he decided he’d give it a try. he likes it. he loves the lyrics, mostly.

good 4 u: CHARLIE. he loves screaming the lyrics to this song. especially the bridge and the last chorus. “LIKE A DAMN SOCIOPATH!” cameron has to beg him to turn the volume down,, he doesn’t listen to him, obviously, and instead turns the volume up. his argument? ‘this song is meant to be played loud!’ to which cameron responds ‘but not that loud! i’m trying to study!’ he thinks looking at his roommate directly in the eye when singing “baby, what the fuck is up with that?” exactly the way olivia does is funny. cameron just rolls his eyes every time, but it’s hard for him to hide the smile taking place on his lips.

enough for you: pitts. although he and stev/phen are both super, super smart, i think meeks is the ‘genius’ of the group. and that, can, sometimes, make pitts feel like he might not be good enough for his boyfriend, whom he loves very much. “and i knew how you took your coffee, and your favorite songs by heart. i read all of your self-help books so you'd think that i was smart” whenever he doubts himself, meeks is the first to reassure him and tell him he’s more than enough, but still.. “'cause all i ever wanted was to be enough for you” he listens to this song with his earphones, always, so no one knows he listens to it on repeat.

happier: meeks. ever since charlie got expelled, he can’t stop listening to this song. these two were pretty close, (“he flatters me, that’s why i help him with latin”) and stev/phen doesn’t like thinking about his friend being in a new school, and spending time with other people. “so find someone great but don't find no one better. i hope you're happy, but don't be happier” he wishes charlie would still be with them, at welton, even if he hated it. “your friends aren't mine, you know, i know. you’ve moved on, found someone new” or “does she mean you forgot about me?” he’s being a bit overdramatic, considering charlie comes to see the poets at least once a week, and still attends the dps meetings.. but anyway.

jealousy, jealousy: cameron, because, yes, he’s smart and everything, but he’s still jealous of other people, and wishes he were different. he thinks he should be like the other guys. “all i see, is what i should be, happier, prettier, jealousy, jealousy” he also thinks that, maybe then, people would like him more </3. he knows no one really hates him, but feels like no one really likes him, either. and in his opinion, it’s because he’s.. him. “I'm so sick of myself, i’d rather be, rather be, anyone, anyone else” just like mr. k, this type of music isn’t what he usually listens to, but he relates to this song so much, he can’t help but listen to it at least once a day.

favorite crime: neil. just like todd, he doesn’t associate this song with a relationship he had in the past. actually, he thinks of his father (and his mom, a bit, too) and all of the things his dad forces him to do, even if it upsets him. “those things i did, just so i could call you mine. the things you did, well, i hope i was your favorite crime” i know we don’t usually talk about the canon ending, but i have to. mr. perry didn’t want his son to pursue his dreams, and planned neil’s life for him, which made him feel so miserable, he sadly committed su*c*de.. but then, his dad wasn’t blamed for it, to preserve his reputation. “and i watched as you fled the scene, doe-eyed as you buried me, one heart broke, four hands bloody” todd knows this was neil’s favorite song. he listens to it once in a while, in their room, alone, and cries.

hope ur ok: all of them. do they know how proud i am they were created? after all they’ve been through, especially their family problems, i’m glad they found each other. “she was tired 'cause she was brought into a world where family was merely blood” and even when life throws bad things at them, they always stay strong, and support each other through everything. they’re very brave. “well, i hope you know how proud i am you were created, with the courage to unlearn all of their hatred” i love them, my beautiful poets <33

[cupiiid]

anderperry parenting hcs!! (pt 1)

before i start these headcanons, i would like to hand in my formal apology for scarring you all with my last post about neil and todd. consider this emotional compensation. (i have so many ideas so i had to split it into multiple parts lol)

-neil and todd have two kids named john william anderson and emily hermia anderson, although she goes by hermia (neil wanted their kids to take todd's last name so they couldn't be associated with his father)

-john is older by one year

-john is named after keating of course and his middle name (william) was todd's idea after he watched neil in hamlet and thought of william shakespeare

-neil had the idea for emily's name, one day he burst into todd's office with a book in his hands 'todd!! i have it!! i have the name for our little girl!! emily!!' he was reading emily dickinson that day (she was one of todd's favourite poets so he also loved the idea)

-ginny was actually the one to think of her middle name

- she came over to their house one day to go over the scripts for the latest show she was doing alongside neil and she casually brought up the name hermia for their daughter's name and todd heard that and loved it (neil is pretty sure she only suggested it so she could say she was named after her because she's played hermia)

-when emily was around eight, they took her and john to go see midsummer at a local theatre. emily realised she was named after hermia and from that day forward she demanded to be called hermia (it stuck)

-when charlie heard that story, he was so proud

-neil makes up a bedtime story for them when he can, stories about dragons and warrior faries and elves. his kids adore them.

-since neil is often at the theatre until late most days, todd has to tell them stories. he reads them things, usually the kids ask him to read plays so todd will go scrounging around for some of neil's old play scripts and read a bit every night. (he's not as good as neil but the kids still love to hear the stories)

-sometimes todd and the kids will meet neil at the stage door to surprise him after the show. he'll usually spot them quite quickly and run up to them and pick up the kids and kiss them on the head, telling them all about what it's like on the stage and then as they're walking home, he'll grab todd's hand, kiss him and tell him how much he loves him

(again, im sorry this is so long, i think im incapable of writing short headcanons)

[bazpitchs-violin]

when walt whitman said “and thought of him i love” honestly mood

[theladyofskeletons]

ever since i turned 20, i cannot stop thinking about how John Keats died at the age of 26, how he said in a letter to Fanny

Now I have had opportunities of passing nights anxious and awake I have found other thoughts intrude upon me. “―If I should die,” said I to myself, “―I have left no immortal work behind me – nothing to make my friends proud of my memory – but I have lov‘d the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remember‘d”

– and it pains me to think he had no idea how big and important a name he has become for the romanticism wave, how even in his simplest letters to Fanny, there are still words and lines that are simply fascinating; and how as the letters go on and on, you can see his sickness taking a toll on him, reflecting on his words.

And despite its effects, there are still beauty in his works, in his words. It hurts to think how much more he could've accomplished if he were to live a little longer, how he thought he left no immortal work behind and passed away at the age 26, and yet for years we've been reading and analysing his every work in awe, mouths agape.

[incorrectatotcquotes]

Hello everyone! I haven’t been very active lately, so I thought it was time to make a really long post to make up for it. And when I say long, I mean really long.

There are lots of references to A Tale of Two Cities in Cassandra Clare’s The Infernal Devices, and I wanted to post this theory I have that some of Clare’s characters in TID might actually be supposed to mirror characters from ATOTC. I have already talked a little bit about it in a previous post, but I wanted to make a whole long theory, so here it comes. Major spoilers for both The Infernal Devices (and maybe all of Shadowhunters) and for A Tale of Two Cities ahead. And of course, I’m no expert, so there might be some factual wrongs, and these ideas are just theories. If you find any wrongs, please tell me about it :-)

Will = Sydney?

This one is almost already confirmed. It is mentioned several times in TID how similar Will Herondale is to Sydney Carton, even Will himself knows it. Will seems to be quite upset about it (understandable, if all the stories are true, it might not be very nice to read about your own decapitation), but accepts it as the truth. Will and Sydney have similar personalities, they both seem cold and selfish at first glance, but later on proves to be good people. They both save the main character from their imprisonment in the start, Will helps Tessa escape The Dark Sisters and Sydney manages to get Charles acquitted from the false accusation. Later on they both also sacrifices their lives to save said main characters, Will covers Tessa’s body to shield her from the exploding automaton in Clockwork Prince (he survives, but he is totally prepared to die) and of course Sydney took Charles’ place at the guillotine. Will and Sydney both die at the final chapter of book three (ensuring heart break for us all). As mentioned earlier, they are both quite unpleasant characters from the start, both being rude and mean to the main character, and as readers we are annoyed with them at first, but later on learn to feel sorry for them instead. In Will’s case, he acts the way he does because he believes that he has a magical curse placed on him, making everyone who loves him die, so therefore he must make everyone hate him. Will’s only friend is Jem Carstairs, who Will dares to show his real self to, and who is sick and dying. His solitude and belief that he is unlovable (plus his belief that he unintentionally killed his sister) has made Will depressed and self-loathing. Now, we recognise that, don’t we, ATOTC-fans? Sydney’s problem and the reason for his bad behaviour is his alcoholism and depression, which is not a magical curse, but it might be a metaphorical curse. He also hates himself, and believes that he cannot be loved. Then there is the unhappy love they both have. Will is in love with Tessa, and he does not know that she loves him back, mainly because she is engaged to Jem (whom she also loves, and I’m not going to explain the very complicated romance in TID, it would take too long, if you haven’t read it, I’m sorry for the confusion). Sydney is in love with Lucie, who does not love him back, because she is happily in love with Charles. Will also quotes and almost quotes Sydney at various points in TID, like “you kindled me, heap of ashes that I am into fire”, and calls ATOTC and especially Sydney ridiculous, which honestly sounds like something Sydney would agree with. But Will gets to survive and sort out his life, which Sydney never had the time to do, so I think Will might have that life that Sydeny thought he might have led if he had been a better person. There are other examples of how similar they are, but I realise that this is becoming less of a tumblr-post and more of an essay, so I’ll leave Will and Sydney at this. But my conclusion is that I think Will Herondale was indeed meant to mirror Sydney Carton.

Gideon = Charles?

I’ll try to make this part shorter. So, if we assume that the theory that Will is supposed to mirror Sydney is true, is it not a little bit strange that he appears in TID and Charles does not? After all, Charles is one of the main characters, and Sydney is a side character. But maybe Charles does appear in TID, just a little more subtly. I read some theory (though I can’t remember where) that maybe Jem was supposed to be Charles, and I can see where that is coming from, Jem being a loveable gentleman and everything, but some things just don’t add up. Such as Jem being proud of his family, and his loyalty never being questioned, and not least the fact that it has been confirmed that Jem is based on the poet John Keats. But if we see it from the other end, maybe a TID-Charles will appear. Charles Darnay was born into a very rich family and after his mother’s death he was thought to not show any sympathy to the poorer people his uncle (and his father) were taking advantage of. However, as a young man he realised that the family’s actions were wrong and fled the country, deciding to become a teacher and lead a normal life from there on. He married “beneath his status” and lived very happily with his wife, even though they faced hardships, such as losing a child. Charles is later accused of being an enemy of England, and later also of France, so whatever he does it seems none of the two countries fully trust him. This sounds a lot less like Jem, and a lot more like Gideon Lightwood. Gideon was raised by his father and not his uncle, and he came back to England after living in Spain, but pretty much all of the rest fits perfectly into his story too. He is born into the rich but cruel Lightwood family, and is the first of its children to leave it, after spending time abroad and understanding that what his father is doing is wrong, He is later on mistrusted both by the residents of the Institute (because he is a Lightwood) and by the Clave (because he openly disagrees with his horrible father). Gideon’s appearance does not match Charles’, however. Charles is described to be dark haired and dark eyed, whereas Gideon is described to have sandy-blond hair and green eyes. I would not think the characters’ physical descriptions were very important, if it weren’t for the fact that Will perfectly fits the description from ATOTC. However, Gideon’s physical appearance does match that of Charles Darnay in the ATOTC TV-series from 1989.

(Sorry about the terrible quality of the image). I think Gideon Lightwood might be meant to mirror Charles Darnay. 

Sophie = Lucie?

So Sophie Collins is a loving and accepting person, who still manages to not be naive, and to be brave when she has to. This is not really evidence enough to say that she is supposed to mirror Lucie Manette, because they are common traits in characters. I really do not have a lot of evidence for this part of the theory, it is more a feeling than anything else. But if we assume that the theories about Gideon and Will are correct, there are at least a few similarities between Sophie and Lucie. Sophie is happily married to Gideon, despite all they have had to go through together, such as the loss of one of their children. Both Sophie and Lucie are described as very pretty, and they both become the comfort of the people around them. I’d also like to mention that Will does proclaim his love for Sophie (like Sydney proclaims his for Lucie), when she has knocked Jessamine unconscious with a hairbrush, although maybe Sydney put his in a nicer way than Will did. Sophie also manages to stay strong through all of her problems, something that Lucie also does. So there is not a lot of evidence, but I would still like to say that I think Sophie Lightwood is supposed to mirror Lucie Manette, perhaps the Lucie we would have seen if nobody had been there to protect her when she was still small.

Tessa = The Seamstress?

Yes, I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not only going to base this part of the theory on her relationship with Will. If anything, it’s actually a pretty weak argument considering The Seamstress and Sydney only had a few hours together, while Tessa and Will were married for almost sixty years. However, I think there is some evidence that points to Tessa being quite similar to The Seamstress. I think that Tessa might mirror different characters and historical people, depending on who she is with, for example being the Fanny Brawne to Jem’s John Keats. But with the characters mirroring ATOTC characters, I think she is supposed to be The Seamstress. For this one I again have very little evidence, but bear with me. We know very little about The Seamstress, pretty much only that she is born a peasant in the French countryside but manages to make herself a seamstress in Paris, something I imagine would have taken an immense load of work and determination. She is an orphan, and the only family she has left is her cousin, whom she loves very much. She is only twenty years old when she is denounced to the revolutionaries and guillotined, although she is innocent, and we never find out who denounced her. Tessa is born a poor girl in New York, her parents died when she was very young, leaving her with an aunt and a cousin (Nate) whom she thought was her brother. When her aunt dies, Tessa moves to London where Nate is already living. She is stubborn and determined, and she loves her cousin, making her risk her life several times in the first book in the attempt of saving him. We never learn what Tessa did for a living, but I think (and this might be wrong) that she always seems to have an interest in clothes and fabrics that none of the other characters has. Again, that is only what I think, and it might very well be wrong, but it is not impossible that she might have been a seamstress before coming to London. Tessa repeatedly gets captured over the course of the story, and is deemed insignificant by some Clave members, and suspected to be working for the wrong side by other Clave members. Tessa’s cousin is the one who betrays her, and although we don’t know who betrayed The Seamstress, her cousin is the only person we know that she knows, so I would say that that cousin is a good candidate to have done it. She also describes Will (okay, so I did bring up their relationship again) as looking  angelic quite a lot, and Will calls her “Angel Tessa”, which I think might be a paralell to how The Seamstress and Sydney ask each other if the other was sent to them by God. So, there isn’t a lot of evidence, but I think Tessa might be meant to mirror The Seamstress, at least a little bit.

Sorry that this became such a long rant. Again, this is the theory of an amature, so it is far from perfect, and please tell me if you agree, disagree, or find any faults in my reasoning!

[puckandperry]

review: the dps book

below the cut because i got a little bit carried away <3

my grievances with the dps book:

todd is mostly depicted as angry and temperamental, instead of anxious/timid

no swearing

no smoking

keating doesn’t whistle

meeks and pitts never dance on the rooftop when they finish their radio

keating says “poetry, romance, love, beauty” (instead of “poetry, beauty, romance, love”) which just does not hit the same way

keating never says “but only in their dreams can men truly be free. twas always thus, and always thus will be.”

keating doesn’t do the “wrong, mr. dalton! thank you for playing anyway” bit with the bell on his desk

todd never jumps off of keating’s desk

no being chased by walt whitman

“are you a man or a boil” (it’s amoeba, you idiot)

no mention of that face neil makes after todd describes ww and the blanket (this is more of a personal dispute i have lol)

no flying desk set scene

charlie never exercises the right not to walk

they don’t carry keating across the soccer field (despite the fact that this is the cover photo??). actually, they don’t play soccer at all...

gloria and tina (an unfortunate name choice) are like,, 20, while charlie and the poets are supposedly 16

knox’s behaviour is even more creepy/extreme in the book than in the film

no, seriously. he basically assaults chris?!

keating teaches his class about managing distractions by making them take a test whilst he projects a slideshow of scantily-clad women (seriously, what the fuck??)

after neil and todd run lines, neil says, and i quote, “thanks buddy” (how out of character does that sound?), before literally just leaving

this author! loves! exclamation! marks!!!!! and uses them!! for! EVERYTHING!!!!!!!

meeks is literally forgotten in half of the scenes with the poets. not even mentioned :(

neil’s funeral. fuck that shit.

what i liked:

s-t-e-v-e-n  meeks :’)

knox pretends to propose to pitts

backstory as to why it’s called the dead poets society (you’re only a pledge whilst you’re alive; you become a true member in death)

we get more neil-as-puck content

we get a bit of backstory as to how shit todd’s parents really are:

keating teaches the class how to bullshit an essay

todd runs lines with neil outside in the snow, like in the deleted scene!!!!

the deleted left-handed eating scene

all of the poets accompany neil to go find keating so that neil can ask for advice about dealing with his dad

we find out that keating’s sweetheart is named jessica (john and jessica 🥺)

todd mouths neil’s lines at the play!!!!

after the play, todd literally sprints after neil, calling his name. he also, however briefly, gets to tell neil that he was good (this is when i started crying)

the poets go to the cave after the play, and todd vows to fight mr. perry

keating joins them all at the cave and hosts a meeting?!

TODD READS HIS POEM AT THE MEETING

keating tells todd how proud he is of him, and hugs him (in case you’re keeping track, this is the only hug in the entirety of dps, book or film)

todd stands up to his parents in mr. nolan’s office

todd doesn’t sign

in conclusion:

was this book based off of the original script? i think it might have been, in accordance with the appearance of deleted scenes such as the running lines in the snow, and left-handed eating. so, i think i’m going to read the original script asap, because i still have yet to do that! and then i’m emailing peter weir and asking how he could allow this book to happen. 

★★★☆☆

three stars for plot, none for execution, because this author would never have sold a book without the following gained by the film.

[wutbju]

Prominent Christian evangelicals prayed for her destruction, while others say Virginia Ramey Mollenkott saved their lives.

Raised in an evangelical household that disavowed her lesbianism, Dr. Mollenkott became a scholar of the Bible whose books on feminist and gay spirituality offered an expansive, inclusive theology that embraced not just women as equals to men but gay, bisexual and transgender people, too.

She pointed out that Adam, for instance, was male and female before he got lonely. She noted biblical passages that argued for the eradication of all sorts of categories like race, class and gender. And she wrote about how gay people could use the experience of oppression to find compassion and empathy for those who might be hostile toward them.

Dr. Mollenkott often said that she had been radicalized by the Bible. Yet she remained an evangelical.

“Although many right-wing Christians despise what I have done with the keys they put into my hand,” she wrote in an essay  in 2004, “the fact is that the same Bible that deeply oppressed me has also been the most vital element in setting me free.”

Dr. Mollenkott died on Sept. 25 at her home in Pompton Plains, N.J. She was 88. Debra Morrison, a longtime friend and former partner, said the cause was respiratory failure and pneumonia.

Dr. Mollenkott had already made a name for herself in evangelical circles in the 1970s as the author of five books about feminist theology when her sixth, “Is the Homosexual My Neighbor? Another Christian View,” appeared in 1978. It quickly changed the conversation around gay people and evangelicals and helped usher in a new era of gay spirituality.

The book, which she wrote with Letha Dawson Scanzoni, a feminist author of religion and social issues, patiently works through the myriad ways that, the authors found, the Bible does not support the conservative Christian credo that homosexuality is a sin. It also examines the trauma that gay Christians and those who love them have endured because of those teachings.

The book’s arguments — theological, exegetical and ethical — were not original to the authors, but they were eloquently and compassionately articulated and “woven together into a uniquely compelling whole,” William M. Stell, an ordained minister and a Princeton doctoral student whose research focuses on evangelical gay activism in the 1970s and ’80s, said in an email.

The book’s publisher at HarperCollins, Clayton Carlson, declared the book “a counter-market publication” — publishing lingo for a book that won’t sell very well — but said he was proud to be publishing it anyway.

“If one Christian gay person, because of this book, experiences a new sense of self-respect and self-acceptance, a sense of his or her acceptability in the eyes of God, then the book will have been worth publishing,” he said in introducing the book at a symposium in San Francisco, just a few months after the city had passed an ordinance banning discrimination against gay people.

Over the years, Dr. Mollenkott and Ms. Scanzoni heard from many gay Christians who said “Is the Homosexual My Neighbor?” had saved them from suicide; they also heard from evangelicals who felt that the book was heretical and that the authors were not real Christians.

The Year’s ObituariesRemembering Ruth Bader Ginsburg, John Lewis, Kobe Bryant, Chadwick Boseman, Kirk Douglas, Little Richard, Mary Higgins Clark and many others who died this year.

In a letter written in 1989, Bob Jones III, who was then president of Bob Jones University, Dr. Mollenkott’s alma mater, said he was ashamed that she had attended the school and taught there. He described her as a devil for “writing favorably about lesbianism” and said that he believed “it would not be unfit to pray for her destruction.”

The authors had set out to write a book on Christian ethics and social issues. But that changed when Dr. Mollenkott, who was not out publicly, told Ms. Scanzoni that she was a lesbian. As they described the moment in the introduction to the book’s reissue in 1994, Ms. Scanzoni was shocked. She had never met a gay person before, though she had written theoretically about homosexuality. In a painful exchange of letters, the women realized that they would have a very different book on their hands.

In one letter, Dr. Mollenkott wrote, “it was a terrible thing to be a person who has news to tell that can drain the blood out of a good friend’s face.”

Virginia May Ramey was born on Jan. 28, 1932, in Philadelphia, to Frank and May (Lotz) Ramey. Her mother was a butcher and a grocery store owner.; her father was a chiropractor. The family belonged to the Plymouth Brethren, a fundamentalist ministry that met in a storefront. Her father left the family when Virginia was 9.

When she was 11, Virginia fell in love with a 21-year-old woman, and when her mother discovered the relationship, she sent her daughter to a Christian boarding school near Orlando, Fla. There the administrators chastised her for her lesbianism, using the Bible to “clobber her,” as Dr. Mollenkott often said. At 13 she tried to drown herself.

At Bob Jones University, a professor told her to “cure” herself of her homosexuality by marrying a man. Dutifully, she married a fellow student, Fred Mollenkott. After receiving a bachelor’s degree in English, she stayed on to teach English at Bob Jones while her husband completed his undergraduate studies.

Dr. Mollenkott earned a master’s degree in English at Temple University and her Ph.D. at New York University. Her dissertation was on John Milton, the 17th-century English poet who wrote “Paradise Lost,” and her deep dive into his work liberated her thinking about the Bible. She began to read it more critically, as a literary as well as sacred text. In studying Milton’s writings about love and marriage, and about divorce over incompatibility, she found the resolve to divorce Mr. Mollenkott in 1973.

Dr. Mollenkott was a professor of English at Temple and chaired English departments at Shelton College, in Ringwood, N.J., and Nyack College, in Nyack, N.Y., before joining the faculty at William Paterson University in Wayne, N.J. She taught there for three decades, retiring in 1997 as an emerita professor of English.

She married her partner of 17 years, J. Suzannah Tilton, in 2013, after the United States Supreme Court overturned a law that denied federal benefits to same-sex couples. Ms. Tilton died in 2018.

Dr. Mollenkott is survived by her son, Paul, and three granddaughters.

She was the author of 13 books — all written in longhand on a yellow legal pad — on social justice and feminist theology as well as on gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender issues. She also lectured and led retreats.

Dr. Mollenkott grew accustomed to hate mail and death threats, Ms. Morrison said, but would often say, “There are some things worth dying for.”

In 1999, Dr. Mollenkott received a lifetime achievement award from Sage, a nonprofit group that supports older L.G.B.T.Q. people, for “challenging homophobia in Christian institutions.” In 2001, she received a Lambda Literary Award for “best book in the transgender category,” for “Omnigender: A Trans-Religious Approach,” which explored nonbinary experiences in Christian and other religious traditions in early biblical texts.

She envisioned a society in which people could be free to define their own identities, saying in an interview published in 2018 that she considered herself “bi-gender, inwardly identifying myself with males as well as females.”

In the interview, with David Weekley, a transgender minister with the United Methodist Church, she discussed crimes against transgender people and how scholars might do their part by writing about intersectional oppression and its psychological underpinnings.

“Ultimately there is no solution except to learn healthy self-acceptance and mutual support with those who are unlike — or perhaps too similar — to ourselves,” Dr. Mollenkott said, adding, “John Keats said that ‘sympathetic imagination’ — the ability to imagine what someone else is feeling — is the basis for all morality, and I agree.”

[outroshooky]

waiting for the sky to fall | jjk

⇢ genre: series; part one (i-saw-you-on-the-subway-every morning-this-week-and-i’m-possibly-in-love-with-you!au) (fluff)

⇢ pairing: jeon jeongguk x reader

⇢ word count: 6.3k

⇢  warnings: brief instance of anxiety; probably too much rambling about how pretty jeongguk is when he exists like that

⇢ a/n: a dearest birthday present for the love of my life and platonic soulmate @guksheart. cait, i cannot believe we have been a part of each other’s lives for over a year now. i adore you so so much and i am so proud of the bold, compassionate, wonderfully gay, fierce yet gentle, considerate, accepting, lovely woman that you are. i would not trade our sisterhood for the world, and i still cannot believe that you are coming to new york in a mere matter of months. i can only hope that we’ll have adventures like this one when you do.

this is heavily inspired by the commute i took to visit my friend in the city over the summer!! kudos to columbia university for loaning me some much-needed inspiration, although i never fell in love with anybody on the way there.

part one of the verses and vibes series. part two will be uploaded on december 20, 2019.

“bright star, would i were stedfast as thou art—   not in lone splendour hung aloft the night   and watching, with eternal lids apart,   like nature’s patient, sleepless eremite,”

⤷ “bright star, would i were stedfast as thou art”; john keats

10:57pm.

Call it 11, it’s close enough.

Eleven o’clock in the evening.

A sacred time, those great appreciators of the universe would say. It is amazing how, as the wind caresses your hair with breezy fingers, there are some who walk the city streets below without pause. Some who cannot understand the sanctity of such a time, the security that comes with the blanket of nightfall— if you could call it nightfall in the heart of such a metropolis.

Below you beats a rhythm akin to the one in your soul, beneath the skin of your merely human chest. A home you’d heard so much about, fallen in love with before you’d even met, and god it couldn’t have felt more right. Over the edge of the balcony is utter chaos: taxi cabs honk an irregular staccato, the open! sign of the ramen shop one block over flickers its own neon melody. People shout, brakes screech, doors bang, dogs bark; to anybody else, it would be utter madness but to you- to you, it is simply home.

The ambient light mutes the glow of so many stars that pinprick the sky millions of miles above, arcing across the heavens in so many celestial designs. If you squint, you can pick out Casseopia, maybe even Ursa Major through the dim haze. The stars are far and few between, but it’s a quick glance to your left and right and you’re surrounded by majestic masterpieces, this time of a manmade design.

When you were younger, you used to muse that skyscrapers not only scraped the bright blue sky so far above, but supported the very cosmos itself with the slight curve in their arching backs. They bore the weight of the world, shouldering the immense task of keeping the stratosphere aloft. For a skyscraper to crumble was for the sky to fall, and yet you’d never seen one even waver in the wind.

Later, of course, you would learn that this was not the case. Earth herself kept the stratosphere in good health, and those wonderfully tall buildings existed as testaments to man’s great ability. However, there was a quiet part of you that still entertained the fantasy (as all of us do, in one way or another). And why not? It's moments like this, where you are surrounded by the dizzying breadth of the world out there and you can taste the sweetness of the universe’s ambrosia, that have you thinking twice about it all. Who says that we can't hold up the sky? Who says we don't spend our lives wondering, even if just a little bit, when the pillars will collapse and the sky itself will cave in one shuddering breath? Who decides when the Sun will burn, the Moon will freeze, when life as we know it tumbles to ash and dust?

“Baby?” His fingers interlock over yours, warm against the cool of the balcony railing. “Everything okay?”

His chest is warm against your back, grounding in its familiarity. You could name the planes and angles of his body like you could name the asterisms that freckle the night sky. He smells like cucumber soap when you turn and nuzzle into his neck, the damp locks of his hair tickling your forehead. You usually tease him when he’s post-shower like this, the bangs that tumble past his cheekbones giving the impression of a shaggy mop, but you spare him tonight. He squeezes over your hand, palm flush against your knuckles as your cheeks heat against his neck. 

“I’m fine,” you murmur. “Just taking a moment.”

Jeongguk tilts his head skyward, but he’s already got the universe in his eyes, wide and fawn. His chest rumbles when he speaks, soft velvet, a little gritty. “It's so beautiful out here.”

“Not as beautiful as you,” you raise your head to reply, brushing your nose to the column of his throat.

He’s got good composure but he's blushing now, between the lateness of the hour and the softness of your skin. He may smell of Dove and there’s a pimple dotting his cheek, but you’re stunning in the light and there’s a faint air of something sweet; if it’s your skin or your soul, he can’t decide. Perhaps both but he can’t help himself; his lips find your forehead and your eyes flutter shut. Contentment so simple, so lovely. 

His arm slides around your shoulders and the way you fit into his side is divine insistence. The other half you never knew you had, and yet at one time, it wasn’t this way. Hard to believe, but that’s the reality of it, and you never even knew he filled a gap in your heart until the deed was done, and there was nothing you could do to unplug the hole.

He kisses your temple and you kiss his shoulder, exposed by the dip of his t-shirt. “Come to bed, baby.”

“But it’s so nice out here,” you whine. 

“It’s late and you have class in the morning,” he coaxes quietly, his accented English gentle in your ears. “Come on.” His fingers slip from your own and you sigh, giving in.

“But you have to carry me inside.”

His eyes roll but he’s already stooping, and when he scoops you into his arms to press a kiss to your nose- he just can’t help himself- you poke his cheek and he grins a smile as warm as the lazy afternoon sun. “I love you.”

“I love you twice that amount.”

Jeongguk takes the balcony in stride, nudges the sliding door open with his foot. “Yeah, well I love you fifty times that amount. Squared.”

He kicks it closed behind him as you raise an eyebrow. “Cheater.”

“I’ll throw you on the bed, swear to god.”

“You’re mean,” You retort. 

“No I’m not.” He turns the light off on his way in, bumps the bedroom door shut with his impossibly slender hip. “I’ll be the big spoon if you take that back.”

Bedsheets under your fingertips. “Fine.”

It is hard to believe that, merely a year ago, you would be coming inside to an empty bed. Merely a year ago, your world would be silent, save the busy hum outside your apartment windows. Merely a year ago, you hadn’t a clue that your world was about to turn upside down, flipped on its axis and spun into chaos in ways you’d never even considered possible. Merely a year, but a lifetime spent sitting, waiting, wishing- twiddling your thumbs, chewing on your fingernails, anxiously hoping for something, anything.

And that’s when, exactly three-hundred and sixty-four days ago, the columns gave out in a rush of dust, the cosmos itself unraveling at the seams of early morning.

 Momentary silence, a stifled yawn. “Come cuddle.”

A sleepy, breathy, near-whisper. “Will you be the big spoon?”

Jeongguk chuckles, breath soft. “Always, baby girl. Always.”

one year before

There’s no better alarm clock than a caramel macchiato, sipped through tired lips and bleary eyes on the chaos of a Monday morning in the subway. You are far from a morning person, as evidenced by the death grip on your Starbucks cup, but you feel just a little more human with the help of four espresso shots and a pump of hazelnut. Having an off-campus apartment means it’s a roughly twenty minute subway ride between home and school, but you can’t find it in yourself to care, not when there’s not much of a difference between the two.

To be frank, the city is home- a comfort you never expected, the subject of a thousand love letters never to be written but in the deepest cavities of your soul. The grime of the sidewalks, the gritty rumbling of the subways, artful graffiti and corner bubble tea and a little bit of pride, thrumming in the deepest recesses of necessity. The city in which you grew up is merely a square foot to the square acres that are your romping ground now.

The wires of your headphones snake around your scarf, bundled up around your shoulders. It is that wonderful time before fall bleeds over completely into winter, a lingering cool breath, and arguably the best season of all. Thus, you are perfectly comfortable underneath a warm jacket, backpack slung across your shoulder as you swipe your card, pass through the turnstiles and on to the waiting train just across the platform.

The subway car rattles beneath you with a groan, darkness rushing past in so many variants of orange from the neon lights that dotted the tunnels. Around you, bodies press tight on the morning commuter train; in any other circumstance, it would make you anxious, but there’s an odd feeling of security it grants. The train slows, pulling into the next station, and you focus your attention on the page of Madeline Miller’s latest bestseller.

At the next station, the car decompresses as travelers shift, and you are left a moment to breathe before the train will inevitably fill again, two stops from now. Next to you, a purple jacket brushes your shoulder. Just above the top of your book, a pair of black Timberlands pauses before turning towards you and settling. 

There really is no reason at all why these Timberlands would be special. There's no reason at all why your eyes find it necessary to track upwards, no reason why you should have glanced up from your delightful novel for the sake of one commuter’s settling. No reason at all why, as your eyes followed skinny jean-clad thighs to a leather jacket, and further, further.

His caramel-streaked hair brushes his cheekbones, styled in a way you’d typically call bedhead, but on him looks like art. His brow is soft yet defined, much like his jawline, cutting narrow. His lips are perfectly pink, a gentle pout, and his graceful nose a button. His shoulders are broad, the taper of his waist impossibly slender but hidden under the folds of his ridiculously oversized t-shirt. 

And his eyes- his eyes. 

You have poured over literature for hours upon hours, soaking in poetry and epics and novels alike, yet you have never understood what the poets meant until this very moment.

His eyes are the café au lait you sip on sunny afternoons, the sweetness of a chocolate bar, the warmth of a woolen blanket in wintertime. They glint with the light of a thousand stars but shine with the depth of a thousand galaxies, each and every one a testament to the great work of the universe. It is as if he holds the very cosmos in his pupils, and your breath is stolen from your lungs without a second thought. 

He is stunningly beautiful but goes completely unnoticed by everyone else in the car, it seems, as the train picks up speed. There is no greater punishment than tearing your gaze away from him when you realize you've been staring too long to be socially acceptable. You force yourself to return back to your novel but end up reading the same line five times over, too distracted by the shift of his heels, the way he toys with the straps of his rucksack. 

Part of you aches every time the train car fills, obscuring your view of the handsome stranger. Each time, you’re left wondering if he's moved, but each time, the crowds part to find him still seated on the garish plastic bench, glued to his iPhone. Your stop is the next and you can't help but feel anxious about getting up, about turning face and walking out of the train car. Your heart rattles an irregular tempo as you snap your book shut (still on the same page as twenty minutes ago), gather your things, and carefully stand amid the gently rocking car. He doesn't even look up at your sudden movement, and there's a part of you that is somehow irrationally crushed. 

The train grinds to a halt and the doors slide open, and you spare one last longing look before striding across the grimy tile, minding the gap between the train and the platform. Foolish of you to want to stop your day for the sake of an attractive stranger. Foolish of you to think his day would stop, either. 

With a muffled curse behind you, footsteps thud and voices grumble as a mop-haired boy with a rucksack on his shoulder bursts his way out of the train car, having nearly forgotten that this is his stop, too. When something brushes your arm as you jog up the stairs, you nearly drop your Starbucks with the realization that he is unintentionally keeping pace with you across the stairwell, lost behind the curtain of his fawn locks. 

Anxiety melts to curiosity as you weave through the station, matching pace all the while as you’re spit out onto the street from underground and walk the mere half block to your university gates. He hesitates under them, a touch of nerves, but shakes his head and continues on under the tree-covered path of the quad. You lose him somewhere by the Economics building, heading towards the library as you turn towards Hamilton Hall, but the excited thrill in your veins outweighs any and all disappointment.

You're practically glowing during 8am lecture, dancing on air through your lunch break when you think you spot him across the dining hall, but in fact it's just that guy from your math gen-ed. You’d never admit to a stranger consuming your thoughts, but here’s a nagging feeling at the back of your skull as you zip up your bag at the end of your day and head towards the corner station. 

A typical Monday indeed?

Anything but. 

It was certainly unconventional, the way you launched yourself out of bed the next morning in favor of tripping into a pair of jeans and dashing to fix your hair in the bathroom mirror. You haven't put so much effort into getting ready in months, and factoring in time for a dab of makeup left you skipping breakfast in favor of slinging your bag over your shoulder to rush out the door on time.

An iced Americano restores breath to your lungs, but does nothing to soothe the jitter in your bouncing knee as the train doors shut and a voice crackles over the intercom, unintelligible. A chocolate croissant is light on your tongue, memories of the flaky pastry crossing your mind only to be drowned out by thoughts of the next station and the promises it holds.

With no novel in hand, it is easy for your eyes to flick to the crowd as the train slows coming into the station. Effortlessly, you pick him out even with the white mask across the lower half of his face obscuring his nose and mouth. His visage is scrawled, it seems, on the inside of your eyelids; it danced throughout your Human Behaviors class, teased you through the late night of cramming for midterms. You hoped the concealer would cover the dark spots under your eyes, but you couldn't be certain.

As the doors slide open and the crowd surges forward, you lose him for a moment in the streams and flows of people coming and going. He appears just down the car, button-down rolled at the elbows, and even from a distance you feel your cheeks heat as he finds an empty seat just across the aisle.

Yesterday, his jacket hid him to the knuckles under the security of worn leather. But today, pushed sleeves reveal the ink snuggled tight around his wrist, curling its way up his forearm to snake hidden under the folds of the unbuttoned dress shirt he so casually threw over another plain black t-shirt. Sunflowers and daisies and blossoms you can't even name bloom in color across his skin, geometric designs etching sculpture into living marble. He is a magnum opus through and through, bearing so many works of art on the canvas of his flesh.

The white wires of his headphones leave him oblivious to the world, the galaxies in his pupils twinkling under the stark white light. He is wholly unbothered by a group of high school girls tittering to his left, the judging eyes of the older gentleman to his right. He simply exists in all of his beauty, whether the world wishes to love him or not.

And then his eyes find you.

It is only for a moment, but his gaze renders you breathless, mind spinning, pulse racing. He blinks owlishly, staring only for a second, two, but it's long enough to feel your heart ricochet around your chest, caged butterflies in your chest soar against the crest of your ribcage. They dart in tandem, beating their fragile wings with a fluttering pulse; you swear you’re reduced to a mere teenager at the sight of him, and that’s just ridiculous. The train car around you is suspended; it is hard to believe you are breathing the same air merely a few paces away, but you are and it is him and the depth of his soul is staring you blind in the face.

You don’t know him but you know him, all at once. He says a thousand sweet nothings with the shine of the lights in his eyes, promises commandments to keep when his lashes flutter against the apples of his cheeks. He is a complete stranger but somehow, someway, a known companion. His fingers twitch against the fabric of his jeans and you wonder what they would feel like wrapped around yours, memorizing every divot with a careful reverence. How they would brush your hip when he pulls you against his side, how they would pull at you craving more, more, more— 

A spice of cologne curls under your nose, a little floral, a little sweet. Perhaps it’s his, the scent that clings to his pillow in the morning and his jacket in the evening. The tap of the woman’s foot to your left is the beat of his footsteps on the creaky apartment floor as he announces he’s home, he’s brought dinner; life is simple and content—

He nods his head to the beat that flows quick through his headphones, eyes shut, in his own world. You can’t help but wonder what it would be like to share on your morning commute, fingers entwined with coffee in one hand but music in your heart—

Bodies around you ebb and flow, but the flurry is nothing compared to the images that swirl in front of you. Tracing his tattoos with the lightest touch, laughing till his nose scrunches at a shitty pun, early kisses and late-night touches. The warmth in his eyes when you do something stupid, the comfort in your arms around his shoulders when he’s doubting himself—

It’s a misplaced elbow to your ribs that jolts you out of reverie as the older gentleman seated next to you creaks to his feet. You wince and open your mouth to complain, but not before taking in the empty seat across the train car, devoid of leather and ink and beauty.

Where did he g— 

That’s when the car doors slide shut and you, all too soon, come to a stunning realization:

The handsome stranger whom you have just spent twenty minutes daydreaming about is gone, nowhere to be seen, lost in the crowd of chaos that is the city.

And you have completely missed your stop.

Well, it’s a damn good thing taxi cabs exist.

Your alarm does not go off on Wednesday morning. Perhaps a fatal mistake, because by the time your dreary eyes crack open at the suspicious amount of rest you’re getting for the middle of the week, you are supposed to leave your apartment in eight minutes— shower, breakfast, makeup, and all.

Perhaps there is a god looking out for you after all, because you manage to make it out of the house only two minutes later (although just about all of the above had to wait). Your stomach grumbles as your feet trod down the littered stairs of the station, an insistent reminder that the last meal you had was ten hours ago, and you really need to eat sooner rather than later. No time meant no coffee meant cold hands, an unfortunate consequence, and you’re shivering your way through the turnstiles onto the train as the wind bites cool at the back of your neck.

You’re still drowsy from sleep, a ten page paper having kept you awake, so it is no surprise that you nod off on the train. You’re not sure when your mind clears of soporific fog, but when your eyes flutter open, the one person you’ve been waiting for is seated in front of you with his elbow slung across a backpack next to him, propping up his head as he too drifts off. A raven cloth mask covers his nose and his mouth, his eyelashes brushing the curve of his cheeks, a bit crimson from the chill. A binder slips crooked under his arm, threatening to topple to the floor. Squinting at the train board means you’ve got two stops left and you force yourself upright, rubbing your eyes only to wince at their dryness.

Though your eyes ache and sleep tugs at your bones, he is worth staying awake for as his body sways with the rhythm of the car. Around you, everyone is immersed in their own little slices of the world, completely oblivious to another tired traveler. There’s a scar on his cheek and a tiredness about him, and your heart, two sizes too big, aches for something you don’t quite understand. One station passes without interruption and he is still asleep, draped over his backpack with his notebook slipping further, further. 

The train rounds the final bend, brakes screeching as it pulls into the station. The sudden deceleration is enough to send the stranger’s binder, packed with papers, spinning to the floor of the train just as you stand to gather your things. A few index cards here, some loose green and white papers there, and he is somehow still asleep through all of this, surrounded by oblivious minds and occupied hearts.

You have approximately five seconds to make a decision before the train fills with a swell of new passengers.

You don’t have to think when you’ve already made your choice.

Forgoing the cleanliness of your jeans, you stoop to the floor, scrabbling the spilled contents of paper and a pencil and a spare Chapstick into the mouth of the binder. People are already beginning to spill through the door, but you’re pushing your way through without a second glance, feet pounding the steps underneath you. You follow the beam of light that pours underground, cutting corners and rushing staircases until you are facing a narrow city block and the buildings that reach on tiptoe to kiss the heavens. The sun’s caress is warm on your cheeks as you stride through the gates, ever stony in their stoicism, and find a shady bench to sit and organize the mess in your hands.

It is a simple black binder filled to the brim with notebook paper, neat handwritten ideas that dissolve into simplistic sketches and jotted thoughts. You don’t mean to read it, you really don’t, but as you tuck the pencil into the neon green case looped through the rings, a single form catches your eye: an advertisement for the show in the greater library this weekend, set up by the architecture majors showcasing their designs in conjunction with the fine arts students.

He does fine arts? That must be the sketches in these pages. But perhaps it’s a casual hobby for him? Maybe he’s only interested in it and not actually pursuing it as a major. There’s Korean on this too; is he an international student? How long has he been going here? Why isn’t he dorming on campus with the others—  

A cough in front of you, and when you glance upward, you nearly choke in surprise.

Hazel shines russet when his eyes catch the light that filters through the trees, twinkling with something unknown when they meet your own. His hair is tucked under a beanie, vivid red against the muddy brown of his oversized sweater. His mask is pulled down to his chin as he fidgets in front of you, twisting his fingers with almost a childlike nervousness. His lips part, plush, a little chapped. “Can I have that?”

His English is sweet, accented on the ears, a softer tone than you’re expecting, but you don’t mind it. Curse your nerves and your sweaty palms! “Oh! Yeah, sure!” You nearly shove the binder at him and he blinks owlishly, taking a moment to examine its contents, making sure nothing is out of place while you ramble on and on. “I’m so sorry I didn’t get it back to you on the train, but you were asleep and I didn’t want to bother you, especially since here that’s typically just not what people do, you know how they are- Oh, your pencils and things are inside the pencil case, I figured they would be too much to try to carry around before I found you, you know? And I didn’t want anything to get lost; I hate when things of mine go missing and I tend to be so scatterbrained.” You chortle nervously as he hugs the binder to his chest.

A small smile blossoms on the stranger’s face and you get the feeling there’s more he wants to say, but doesn’t know how. Instead, he bows graciously, a little pink in the cheeks, and states simply, “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem, really! Don’t worry about it. It’s what I’d want someone to do for me and since I’ve seen you only recently on the morning train, I didn’t quite know if you’re new to campus or you’ve been here a while and just moved or something like that-” He’s still staring, eyes wide, and you realize you’ve been talking for far too long. “But ah, I’m sorry! Continue on, yeah? Have a good day!” You ramble, internally kicking yourself. Damn your loose tongue and damn this man for being so infernally, unfairly attractive.

He blushes even deeper, face flushing crimson, and shoulders his backpack. “You too…?” When he trails off, you realize he’s waiting for your name and nearly trip over your own tongue getting the syllables out. He repeats it once and nods, extending a hand. “My name is Jeongguk.”

The way his fingers brush yours is ingrained in the softness of your skin for the rest of your day, in the touch of cologne that lingers in the autumn air long after he’s gone to class. He is the sweetness of your afternoon Starbucks and the freckles of the night sky, dotted through the ambient fog that settles over the city with all the comfort of a blanket. Somehow, someway, there’s a name to the face.

A very handsome face, to boot.

You wake early that Thursday, early enough that you have time to wrap yourself in the fuzziest blanket you own and pad to the window to gaze out upon the city as it wakes slowly, block by block.

The city is sleepy too, rosy glow hanging lazily over the skyline, reluctant to slip into the brightness of daytime. It slumps against the skyscrapers, vibrant fingers brushing the glass with the softest caresses, whispering sweet nothings to the minds that rest just behind the other side. Perhaps dawn enjoys pampering her city like this, with the kindest affirmations and the prettiest, warmest eyes. 

From your apartment window, it is as if first light is melting away, slipping lower and lower as the cracked-egg yolk of the sun leaks over the harbor, spilling over the urban jungle. As you stand, blanket around your shoulders and bathed in the beauty of early morning, a thought strikes you, a minute snippet of profound reality.

It is still on your mind as your feet cross the platform an hour later, effortlessly stepping over the gap into the narrow confines of the train car. It’s busier this morning and thus your usual seat is taken, leaving you to stand and cling for dear life to the pole. A stranger brushes your arm and someone pushes against your backpack, your throat tightening in response. Oh, how you hated busy days. Anxiety blurs your surroundings, swirling in color and breath and heat around you, an unfocused Polaroid. It is blurry and nothing is right, and the doors are opening and closing, opening and closing, and then there’s a new face pressing to your left, and your entire world melts at the very seams.

It is him. Him! He is here and real and in front of you, and has opted to completely ignore his usual (empty) seat in favor of standing with you, a kindly smile gracing the corners of his lips and he ducks his head into your field of view. His eyes flick to yours and the bokeh clears, your heart thrumming happily at the warmth they contain. His fingers grip above your own as he shifts to make sure others can flow around him; you take in that little scar on his cheek, the moles that dot his neck just under the folds of his jacket, the subtle lick of ink that dips into his collarbone. You can just make out the hum that trickles from his headphones over the rattling of the train, a melodic undertone, and his head dips to check his phone.

You’re the one to nudge Jeongguk when it’s your mutual stop, him flinching with surprise when he realizes how fast the ride has gone, and as you follow up through the station, you find that you are no longer trailing him, but instead by his side. He opts to walk next to you; when you tilt your head, asking the silent question, he merely smiles and pushes the pace just a bit. When you’re chasing sunlight on stone, borne out of the street into the mouth of the day, you find yourselves under the university gates, side by side. He takes out his earbuds, fidgeting with the wires as one foot taps the sidewalk. He’s nervous. “I just wanted to say thank you for getting my book yesterday,” he begins. “Properly thank you.”

“It’s nothing, Jeongguk!” You grin, perhaps a little flushed. “Anytime, really.”

Now it’s his turn to redden, shuffling in place. “Ah, is there anything I can do to return the favor?”

“Jeongguk, don’t be silly! Well…” you trail off. “Answer me one question. What’re you majoring in?”

He beams a little at this, glancing at the sidewalk. “I’m studying architecture here for a year; I’m from Seoul. I’m also learning English.” He winces. “Or trying to.”

“Well, I think you’re doing a great job. It’s amazing that you’re learning architecture in an urban environment like this!” You gesture above as a flock of pigeons flutters past. Like a damn Disney film. 

His eyes follow the birds as they swoop above the street, ducking under lamps and through scaffolding. “It’s different from Seoul, but also like Seoul. I like it,” he confesses. “I really like the city. Any city is my city, not just Seoul. You know?”

God, he is so cute, it hurts. Hearing him talk is flowers blooming snug in your chest, winding around your nerves, soothing their live-wire ends. You can’t help but smile at him. “I know.”

“I don’t want to keep you too long…” Jeongguk hesitates as the bell in the clocktower resonates down the commons. “Class starts soon.”

You frown. “Too soon. Want to grab lunch over at Fourteenth?”

His brows furrow. “Fourteenth?”

“Fourteenth and Tenth, yeah. There’s a cute little cafe on the corner, great for people watching and Americanos. And bubble tea. There’s ramen a few shops down, too.”

“Ramen!” Jeongguk practically vibrates in excitement. You swear your face will crack from how hard you’re grinning, from shyness or joy or both. His nose scrunches; your stomach flutters. “Can I have your number? Wait, is that too direct? May I have your phone?” He shakes his head but you’re already handing him your device, a new contact at the ready.

“Text me when you get out of class. I’ll show you how real ramen is supposed to taste.”

Jeongguk raises a hand in farewell, slipping his own phone back into his pocket. You’ll never know that he saved your contact under 귀여운 여행자, nor that he suddenly has a reason to stay awake through his 8am.

And when he spots you sitting there under the Alma Mater a few hours later, his heart skips a beat in its chest. His phone vibrates in his hand.

Ready to eat?

He was born ready.

There’s a poetry book you like to read on Friday morning subway rides, one that filters breath into your lungs and stirs the lyrics in your heart. You soak up the comforts of literature with a mocha in the other hand, lo-fi in your ears, and obnoxiously colored plastic supporting your back. How wonderful life could be in all of its simple joys.

There’s warmth at your side in the form of a boy, a boy with the stars in his eyes and the galaxy in his heart who asked if he could sit next to you and with a pounding in your chest, you gladly accepted, moving your bag to your lap and returning to your Keats, singing cants of yearning all these years later.

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art--

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night

And watching, with eternal lids apart,

Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,

The moving waters at their priestlike task

Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,

Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--

No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,

Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

And so live ever--or else swoon to dea—

A note is tucked into your open page, a folded piece of cream-white paper, smooth at the edges, unwrinkled. You glance up at him to find his gaze steadily fixed on a grayed gum stain, knee jumping up and down, up and down as he fingers the rip in his frayed jeans. You unfold the paper slowly, carefully.

Are you busy on Sunday afternoon? Because I’d really like to take you to an art exhibition on campus, and I think you’d look right at home among the masterpieces.

Jeongguk’s focus is on the floor and the floor alone as his stomach twists. Butterflies beat their wings against his ribcage, darting here and there, and he swears that if the train sways one more time, he may throw up his bagel right there and then.

He feels something at his right jacket pocket and flinches, only to notice it is your hand that retreats from it a second later.

He produces a familiar looking scrap of paper from his pocket with trembling fingers, unfolding it anew as he reads a new line of scribbled letters, squinting a little at the cramped figures.

An art exhibition? Sounds like a perfect first date to me.

And that’s how this beautiful thing begins.

an epilogue (of sorts): one year and one day later

There is a thought you had many moons ago, in the heart of a child but nestled in a timeless soul. A thought that was purely fantasy: of mankind supporting the weight of the heavens with the structures that scratch the sky around your tiny little apartment, shared not by one soul, but two. Never before had someone so fallen into your heart like he had, cradling it in his palms with sweet, sweet adoration. Jeongguk was yours and you were his, and that was simply how things were.

You had moved in shortly after you began dating, a decision some criticized but had felt purely natural to the both of you. It was easy to fall into a rhythm with him, easy to let him into the world you had built for yourself now expanding to fit one more.

He introduced you to Korean barbecue and held you when things wouldn’t go your way; you dragged him into the vortex of John Mulaney’s comedy and cried together while binging all seven Harry Potter movies in two days. He taught you some Korean while you polished his English, supplementing it with words he perhaps didn’t need to know, but you couldn’t help laughing when he mashed profanities in brand-new combinations. He loved tea and quiet nights on the couch; you craved the intimate moments high above it all, watching your city rush beneath you in all of its gritty, grimy, wonderful glory. Jeongguk’s pen scratches the page of his sketchbook as you gaze out at the lights that flicker in the apartment buildings seated securely in midtown, downtown, beyond.

We will never know when the sky decides to fall, to come crashing down to earth in all of her heavenly splendor. It is something known only in the fabric of the universe, stitched together in cosmic threads we cannot even hope to unravel. Not yet, anyways. It will come to us eventually, when it is time, comfortably so. In the meantime, you’ll look out over the balcony railing of your little studio apartment uptown, the night air breathing clear, with a blanket wrapped around your legs and Jeon Jeongguk by your side, unceasingly himself.

And that is everything you can ask for in this life and the next.