At CrossBones Graveyard, the unconsecrated mass burial ground for sex workers, the poor, and those who took their own lives is now marked by a beautiful garden and lovingly tended to by caretakers who see it as a sacred space. There are also clergy who do regular services of remembrance, regret, and reconciliation to apologize for the wrongs of the church and to honor the dead. There are no headstones here but there are flowers and bees and healing herbs and pilgrims who come from all over to pay their respects to the outcast dead of London.
my biggest pet peeve wiht the english language is that you don’t have sin/sina
in swedish if u have two people who use the same pronoun u can always tell whos doing what bc its like ‘han tog sin väska’ (he took his[own] bag) and ‘han tog hans väska’ would be that he took the other persons bag
but in english its like if u have 2 ppl w/ the same pronoun:
“she took her bag” whose bag????WHose BAG was it her OWN bag or the other her’s bag??????????????
“he ate his donuts” were the donuts his own???? did he fucking eat someone elses donuts??? YIU DONT KNOW bc english is a bullshit language
i have a weird appreciation for Baroque artists, in particular Francois Boucher and Peter Paul Rubens, for depicting the human body in lush detail at a time that predates the standards for bodies to be thin and airbrushed with no wrinkles or cellulite
it’s just really interesting to me
so many the things women are taught to hate about their bodies—pudgy bellies, fat rolls, double chins, and cellulite—used to be ideals of beauty shown in depictions of goddesses
IN THE FIFTH GIF HE PATS THE CUPS WITH HIS LITTLE PAWS TO MAKE SURE IT’S IN. BRB, DYING.
ARE YOU KIDDING? LOOK AT THE 7TH GIF HOW HE JUST HANDS THE CUPS TO THE PERSON AND IS LIKE, “HERE HUMAN, YOUR FEEBLE TASK FOR ME IS COMPLETE. NOW LEAVE US BE.”
Do you ever think about how many of the items now considered priceless artifacts were once commonplace items? The coins we now marvel at from behind the glass at a museum were once tossed around, stepped on, and traded around. The pottery painstakingly pieced back together was somebody’s favorite wine jug. The decorative pin now rusted and bent once held together the shoulder of someone’s chiton. History is simply a trail of ordinary people going about their day, and I think there’s an odd sort of beauty in that.
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