Just Some Of The The Changes In Design For The Penguin Symbol On Old Penguin Paperbacks 

there's a tortoise at work and he's 30 years old and I love that he's 30 years old because I can look at this animal that is 3 years older than me and go "does the man want his appy slices??" and he hustles over cause the man do want his appy slices

what if you wore a shirt that featured a picture of you trying to claw your way out of the shirt with a horrid desperate expression and the text "THAT'S NOT ME THAT'S NOT ME I'M TRAPPED IN THE SHIRT"

💋✨

Thirty love letters? That’s...wow. Whoever they’re for must’ve lit up something rare in you. Kinda makes me wonder what it’d be like to be written about like that

I didn’t write them because I was full of love. I wrote them because I was starving for it. Because I kept trying to turn pain into poetry and it still tasted like blood in the end.

Each letter is a small funeral, a small place to bury a dream that never got to live. I wrote to hands that never reached back. To eyes that never looked at me like I mattered, to ghosts that haunt the shape of love but never stay long enough to be real.

I wrote them because no one told me how quiet heartbreak could be, how it doesn’t always scream, how sometimes it just sits next to you like a tired friend and watches you rot from the inside out. They were just things I needed to say before they drowned me.

Things like:

I miss you even though there was never a you.

I love you even though no one ever stayed long enough to be loved.

Don’t go even though they already did.

I wrote thirty love letters and someday, someone will find them and pretend they were about them but I’ll know the truth.

They were for the hollowness, for the version of me that begged for someone to stay and learned that no one does.

They always say, Memento mori , remember you will die (as if we ever forget)

Death is loud, death shows up uninvited, sits at the table and pours you your tea.

But no one taught us how to live, how to hold hands like lifelines, how to kiss like there’s a clock ticking, how to laugh without guilt when the world’s still burning so I write this for you

Memento vivere.

Remember to live.

Touch your friends' faces like art, cry in the supermarket if you need to, take pictures of the sky, text first, say “I miss you” even if your voice shakes. The end is coming, sure...but that’s not the point. The point is you’re here. You woke up again. Your lungs worked. Your heart didn’t forget how to sing.

Memento vivere.

Carve it somewhere soft, say it like a spell, say it until it sticks.

what you need to understand about recommending a show to me is that no matter how much we both know I'll like it, I can't watch it until the Neurodivergence Department in my brain approves it. I don't know when that will be, and I don't have any more control over it than you do.

she was never a jinx.

i feel like people forget that vander immediately recognized her as warwick even after all the years and how much they both had changed. she was silco's daughter, but his little girl, too.

back at it again, here's mr trauma mc daddy issues

They say love is salvation.

I disagree.

Love is judgment.

It sees into the corners of your soul you thought were safely hidden.

It forces you to confront not only who you are, but who you could have been.

And in that confrontation, something breaks and something is born.