don’t tell me to calm down I’ll throw a fucking desk at your face
[catching fire | chapter 22]
➳ She lies on the sand, gasping like a fish out of water. Sagging skin, sickly green, her ribs as prominent as a child’s dead of starvation. Surely she could afford food, but turned to the morphling just as Haymitch turned to drink, I guess. Everything about her speaks of waste - her body, her life, the vacant look in her eyes. I hold one of her twitching hands, unclear whether it moves from the poison that affected our nerves, the shock of the attack, or withdrawal from the drug that was her sustenance. There is nothing we can do. Nothing but stay with her while she dies.
Dashing Gentlemen: Misha Collins
The arrogance of man is thinking nature is in our control… and not the other way around.
when im dead sext me through a ouija board
Andrew Garfield for Elle magazine Japan (April 2014)
I stare in the mirror as I try to remember who I am and who I am not.
But I believe in true love, you know? I don’t believe that everybody gets to keep their eyes or not get sick or whatever, but everybody should have true love, and it should last at least as long as your life does.