RE-SELLING 1x regular dainty with 7 art pieces attached for $135/$100+add-ons
like this post then I’ll reach out, thanks!
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Did you remember the 21st night of september bro. Did you remember.
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The problem with me talking about music is I have no idea what to ever write about (also: I have no knowledge of anything musical - matter of fact, I was just on last.fm and it feels like everyone has more scrobbles than I do. how the fuck did you listen to 180k tracks last year baby???? do you work? is music what you do irl???? i honestly don't get it!). This album was one of the nice ones.
There's a dancey softness passing through it. It feels vulnerable but upbeat in its music. It's kind of like the first feeling of liking someone. Or maybe coming back from the club but you're not drunk, it's not too late and your house is clean. An indie r'n'b cutie.
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the great thing about tumblr is, no matter how long it's been since you last logged in, there's always a new season of supernatural
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Lf terraliens, can offer 50 to 100 (worth or rarity doesnt matter, 100 would be for terras that i like more)
Like if interested and I'll reach out
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bad metaphors about maps
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to Henry
h,
i have had whiskey. bear with me.
there's this thing you do. this thing. it drives me crazy. i think about it all the time.
there's a corner of your mouth, and a place that it goes. pinched and worried like you're afraid you're forgetting something. i used to hate it. used to think it was your little tic of disapproval.
but i've kissed your mouth, that corner, that place it goes, so many times now. i've memorized it. topography on the map of you, a world i'm still charting. i know it. i added it to the key. here: inches to miles. i can multiply it out, read your latitude and longitude. recite your coordinates like la rosaria.
this thing, your mouth, its place. it's what you do when you're trying not to give yourself away. not in the way that you do all the time, those empty, greedy grabs for you. i mean the truth of you. the weird, perfect shape of your heart. the one on the outside of your chest.
on the map of you, my fingers can always find the green hills, wales. cool waters and a shore of white chalk. the ancient part of you carved out of stone in a prayerful circle, sacrosanct. your spine's a ridge i'd die climbing.
if i could spread it out on my desk, i'd find the corner of your mouth where it pinches with my fingers, and i'd smooth it away and you'd be marked with the names of saints like all the old maps. i get the nomenclature now - saints' names belong to miracles.
give yourself away sometimes, sweetheart. there's so much of you.
fucking yrs,
a
p.s. wilfred owen to siegfried sassoon - 1917:
And you have fixed my Life - however short. You did not light me: I was always a mad comet; but you have fixed me. I spun round you a satellite for a month, but shall swing out soon, a dark star in the orbit where you will blaze.
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