"September marched through smearing everything with oil paint: acres of cardamom yellow, burnt orange, miles of sienna, blue ravines both cerulean and midnight, along with heartbreakingly violet skies."
poetry and musical theater get similar accusations leveled at them in terms of not being realistic, i.e. “no one fucking talks like that” or “people don’t randomly burst into song in real life” and sometimes i just want to take people by the shoulders and say. there are forms of art that are not aiming for perfect realism. are you capable of handling that
Crocodile finds a strange stray cat an 11-year old Nico Robin
(AU where they met 13 years earlier. Robin's been on the run from the World Government for 3 years. Crocodile's 27 and has not set up base in Alabasta yet)
It seems like I have become possessed. By some sort of demon.