Utilising The Gift Of Imagination To Hallucinate Moments Of Tenderness Between Fictional People

i lied. i don’t actually like sex. put your clothes back on, i'm going to explain to you how patroclus made achilles mortal—human. achilles might have died a heartbroken hero but he lived a loved man. and it was all because of patroclus. he was loved because of patroclus, he was more immortal than his demigod blood could ever make him because of patroclus. to be loved incandescently, to be loved back with wide eyes and an open heart is more priceless than a promise from the gods.

If only I had the ability to write down everything. What an interesting journal that would be.

"Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same." - Emily Bronte

Box with my photographs and poetry.

SOMETHING CLAWS OUT FROM THE CENTER OF YOU, THE FOUNTAIN OF PHILOSOPHY NESTLED IN THE SUPERIOR VENA CAVA BLEEDS SHARP AND SICKLY. FLECHETTES OF PUTRID SERRATED BONE LIKE THE JAVELINS OF SOME FETID GREEK HERO CONDEMNED TO THE PATHETIC CLOACA OF HISTORY. BREATHE. DIE. REPEAT.

ONE BEAUTIFUL SUMMER MORNING THE CRACKS WILL HAVE HEALED AND THE TROJANS WILL STAY INSIDE YOUR WOODEN EQUINE BELLY WHERE IT IS SAFE AND DARK WHERE THEY WILL SPOIL INTO GENTLE OBLIVION, FERMENTING SWORD AND BONE INTO GRIT AND SLUDGE. IT WILL STAY LIKE THAT FOREVER. IT WILL.

"WILL IT EVER BE SOFT?" SOMETHING CRAWLS UP YOUR BACK. VERTEBRAE TWITCH INWARD, BENDING AND SNAPPING TO RECOIL LIKE WHEN YOU WERE BURNED WITH THE CURLING IRON. "YES." IT WHISPERS, "TENDER. LIKE A VIRGIN. LIKE VEAL."

tambour embroidered tulle evening cape c. 1920