I love the range of usernames we have here lmao
I love the range of usernames we have here lmao
It's either something like poopissfucker69killlandords
Or just a dude called Frank
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i have performative depression and a bad tummy
Do you have a list of known Communist Party members currently working for the US State Department?
it's a reference to this novelist not joe, afaik
Ohhhh, thank you
Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.
Amber.
:negative:
holy shit i hadn't read The Road since high school and completely forgot that this was a passage in it (or anything about the novel more than generalities really), maybe i should get back into cormac b/c completely devoid of context this brought me close to tears (i may also already be in a state tonight for that). i started a reread of blood meridian not too long ago but v quickly fell off it.
EDIT by close to tears i mean actual tears but u know i still got a little toxic masculinity kicking around in there : /
We do not know how many days passed. The villagers assumed that the man had been shot. Many claimed to have seen his corpse. But finally a visitor came. He was a man from the restaurant. The guard introduced him as assistant manager Marty. Marty spoke to the prisoner with friendly words. Of a terrible misunderstanding. Of regret. For the taco. For his experience at the restaurant. That perhaps some reckoning could be made. Some settling of accounts. Perhaps a ten dollar gift certificate.
i wimpled softly in your mom's flow