Its Meant To Be Spelled Knitting Kneedles. Deep In Your Heart You Know This To Be True

it’s meant to be spelled ‘knitting kneedles’. deep in your heart you know this to be true

by the way no one can tell you what love is or isn’t or whether your perception of love is too soft or too hard or actually performative or just hollow because we all have different life experiences and come to our own understandings of love as we come to love others and experience being loved. nikki giovanni & james baldwin were right when they said that love is a tremendous responsibility and the only responsibility and dostoevsky was right when he said love is perseverance and frank o’hara was right when he said oh god what joy you’re here and wendy cope was right when she said i love you i’m glad i exist and adonis was right when he said that love comes and remains strange wider than we had pictured

I don't think I could ever stop writing completely.

permillion44

sword in hand, you edge deeper into the cave, the acrid stench of ash and rot pressing heavily against your face. blackened bones cover the floor ahead of you as you walk; a burnt skull crushes under your feet. your pulse quickens, your muscles clenched to keep your armour from rattling. the lair of the beast… 

you round a corner to find a singed foil curtain shimmering in front of you. cautiously pushing it aside, you barely have time to register a new smell in the air - is that perfume? - before your eyes adjust and you freeze, agog at the scene in front of you.

a towering cavern, lit dimly by thousands of fluorescent crystals, expands all around you. its floor is strewn with innumerable glittering objects: precious gemstones, necklaces, rare pink diamonds, silver chalices, and gold coins ranging from buttons to dinner plates in size. the millions of their facets cast an eerie play of light and shadow across the cave walls that does nothing to hide you from the beast within.

frozen with fear, you watch as a spotlight suddenly cuts through the darkness, allowing you to see its resident clearly for the first time. you gasp. muscular and truly colossal, the creature’s scales are hot pink, embedded with glimmering rhinestones that dazzle in the light. talons like knives - meticulously painted blood-red - scrape along metal as the behemoth unfurls and stretches to its full height, revealing wings and winged eyeliner and gleaming white fangs. you begin to tremble as it advances, every slinky step closer revealing more horrors: diamante bracelets hung from every appendage; a forked tail with electric blue spikes; impossibly high silver stiletto boots wrapped around powerful back legs… it stops, towering over you, so close that you can smell its hot breath and see your paralysed reflection in its crystal tiara. elegantly blowing out a single stream of purple smoke from its wide nostrils, the beast rumbles, opening its cavernous mouth to speak with a sibilant hiss -

“heyyyy babe. first time?”

and as your knees buckle and your head hits the ground only one thought fills your mind. of course, you realise as you pass out cold. a dragon. a drag-on.

Albrecht Dürer, Hare, 1502