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No good social media exists anymore anyway
What if I came back
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Lucien-Vautrin
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remember that one time Vautrin got arrested and was mad at everyone except Eugene and the old lady was like “we can see why 😒😒😒” and Eugene went crazy because, and I quote, “it shed a light on his soul” meaning she was exposing his gay feelings and then everyone bitched on the homophobic old lady and threw her out I mean what a time
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16/17th Century skull with Sator Square
The Sator Square is a word square containing a Latin palindrome featuring the words SATOR AREPO TENET OPERA ROTAS written in a square so that they may be read top-to-bottom, bottom-to-top, left-to-right, and right-to-left.
One likely translation is “The farmer Arepo has [as] works wheels [a plough]”; that is, the farmer uses his plough as his form of work. Although not a significant sentence, it is grammatical; it can be read up and down, backwards and forwards.
If “arepo” is taken to be in the second declension, the “-o” ending could put the word in the ablative case, giving it a meaning of “by means of [arepus].” Thus, “The sower holds the works and wheels by means of water”
The Sator Square is a four-times palindrome, and some people have attributed magical properties to it, considering it one of the broadest magical formulas in the Occident. An article on the square from The Saint Louis Medical and Surgical Journal vol. 76, reports that palindromes were viewed as being immune to tampering by the devil, who would become confused by the repetition of the letters, and hence their popularity in magical use.
source: The Macabre And the Beautifully Grotesque
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I must admit that “shit-ass” is not a word I ever thought I’d see in a 19th century letter… but here we are.
“This is kind of a shit-ass of a letter, but I just wanted to let you know I was alive.”
- Gilbert Patterson to Jack, June 16, 1896.
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The most recen addition to the endless vautrin modelsheet
@prudencepaccard
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So, a rundown.
I'm alive
My twitter @ is deathsymbolism (yes, I changed it again. Yes, I enjoy having snatched this one.)
I've been working hard and now I'm vacationing hard
Give me a heads-up if you need anything, I'm more likely to see it in twitter dms though
Please read Père Goriot that's all I have to say
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Mistakes
Heya! To try and further promote the upcoming Matsuda Yasuke fanweek at the end of May (more info on this blog), I’m gonna start posting ficlets with the various prompts suggested! Just to give a couple of ideas!
Warnings for hospital stuff and the Kamukura Project.
When he was little, he tore up a lot of things. Paper, fabric, skin. Even young, he understood that tears left behind scars when fixed. Even when glued back in place. Even when taped together. Even when stitched together.
Things couldn’t be as they were, and people were the same.
Something basic that he refused to believe at heart. Even a rotten corpse can be restored, he had once thought. We’re just not competent enough to do so.
He thinks that. He thinks that. He thinks that.
He rips open a hole in his shirt. He sews it back together. He does so perfectly. No pricks, no mistakes. Just the perfect cover up of one.
Rips are a permanent stain. One that can’t disappear like blood under a scrub of hydrogen peroxide. It’s a scar. Scars can fade, but they can’t disappear.
Even on what’s supposed to be perfection.
Kamukura Izuru doesn’t say anything as Matsuda brushes his hair back, as he stares at the scars, as he remembers marking that very skull with marker and cutting through. Kamukura stares back impassively, when Hinata had stared back in fear and trepidation.
At some point, Hinata Hajime had started screaming and struggling. He had to be sedated. Even through the drug, Matsuda could see the other screaming behind that now vacant stare. Let me out, let me out, let me out! Finally realizing what a stupid fucking mistake it was to consent to something like this.
“You should have just run away,” Matsuda had mattered back then. And right now, he says, “You can still run away. Get as far from us as you can. You don’t have to stay here.”
Kamukura Izuru says nothing, but his gaze drops, cold and despondent.
“You don’t have to live like this because of his mistake,” Matsuda said, more firmly. “Even if that idiot can’t be brought back, you’re still…”
“Do you really believe I cannot be undone?”
Matsuda stops. Kamukura is still not looking at him.
“Do you really think I am a permanent fixture? You know better than anyone that these egotistical fools are rushing headfirst towards their end, and that in that end, I will be discarded without a second thought.”
That’s—another situation entirely. Yes, I killed him, and I brought in this guy to replace him… But… But..
“You really don’t care, do you? Hah. Haha. Why bother, then?”
Matsuda Yasuke, someone foolishly committed to undoing entropy, could only shrug his shoulders at the fact.
“It’s not my fault,” he said, to himself and to Kamukura. “I warned him. And I warned you. It’s not—my fault. I’ve got no obligation to either of you.”
It would be a mistake to pretend that were true.
But he was really, really just an idiot like that.
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Cesare Vecellio, Member of the Brotherhood of Death that accompanied those sentenced to death, late 16th century
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