[clea coaxes them off the wall like they would a very nervous abseiler, feeling something in their chest. like, some kind of feeling. they're not sure which one.
"thanks," clea says softly, deciding that tacking on a rapunzel might be a little tacky. "sick much?"
they'll let her decide how much pity she wants to take from that.]
[clea is very much walking around ra. clea is suddenly not enjoying this episode.]
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["can you toss down some shoes, maybe?" clea calls into the dark above them, not at all okay with this. they try to kick theirs off without looking down.]
[clea is very much walking around ra. clea is suddenly not enjoying this episode.]
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[clea is very much walking around ra. clea is suddenly not enjoying this episode.]
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[it took six days for every cell in clea's body to tear itself apart--it's gonna take a lot of trial and error to fit themselves back together. clea wakes up human shaped, at least: a stick figure template visibly reigning in whatever parts of them try to reach out of bounds. their face resets with a ripple again and again, modelling itself in real time, searching for a likeness. they ignore their aching eyes and clumsy feet, and stumble grinning out onto the grounds. gonna enjoy this episode while it lasts.]
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sorcieresque replied to your post: eldritchlulz replied to your photo dude...
I did.
Whatever our souls are made of, Wuthering Heightsâ and mine are the same.
oh i know this one!! i read it on an emo blog
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eldritchlulz replied to your post: eldritchlulz replied to your post: ...
isnât he the one who sells his soul to the devil for some good times
i thought it was the cliff please say sike
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eldritchlulz replied to your post: eldritchlulz replied to your photo dude...
come behead reagan with me itâll make ye feel better
itâs a very heathcliff move
wait is heathcliff like?? a dude??
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eldritchlulz replied to your photo
dude donât tell me yer sitting through fucking geography
dude i sat a practise exam on wuthering heights!! who's even read wuthering heights!!
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christopher meloni is hotter than youâd think .
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above, there is an attic.
TURN IT ON.
moire snaps her gum, a sharp pop over the always-buzzing space heater. canât risk the machine freezing up. âam noâ allowed.â
PLEASE HURRY.
âtheyâll do it soon,â she says, eyes rolling. âkeep yer tits on.â the little red dot starts scrawling faster, squeaking against the foggy mirror.
NOT THEM! GOT2BE U!
she asked once why they couldnât move the machine somewhere warm, somewhere sea spray doesnât drip down from the rafters. she asked why they came here in the first place, and woke up to a padlock on the atticâs trapdoor. theyâre gonna notice she broke it.
U GOTTA BRING ME BACK, the dot writes; fast and then slow, sparse and then cramped in the dwindling mirror space. moire tilts her head.
âfrom where?â
the red hesitates. moire knocks her foot against the mirrorâs, hardly disappointed. it never answers that one. âitâs alright,â she sighs. âcan tell me when ye get here.â
the glass is webbed over with words, every stroke a cut-apart-portrait: flannel, freckles, sharp cut shoulder. the blood red fingertip draws a smile in the last free space, and moire smiles softly back.
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from the photography project The Pink Choice by vietnamese photographer Maika Elan
Nguyen Thanh Hai (Maika Elan) was born in Hanoi, Vietnam, in 1986. In 2010, Maika moved to documentary photography and her first project, The Pink Choice, focuses on the personal lives of gay couples in Vietnam.
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oh to be a tiny tiger cub that cannot open its eyes yet but is protected and lovingly groomed by its parent
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