dickens would either write amazing erotica or he’d spend too much time exaggerating the characters noses and foreheads to even compare their dicks to steam trains or something. just noses and foreheads bumping about the place.
I spent the afternoon arranging our books by size and color (and it’s so satisfying and looks amazing) and my partner came home and stared in shock at the bookcase and then said “i’m a librarian, you can’t do this.”
(I’m posting this less to correct the timeline portrayed in Bohemian Rhapsody, which I mostly really enjoyed, than simply to share a beautiful story that shines light on who Freddie actually was, up to the very end, via twitter.)