“ I’m going to die. Why does it have to be so warm already? “ Spring has eased into summer, bringing with it heat both welcome and unwelcome. It’s not the weather or it’s attributed temperature that causes Jude to sweat and fuss, hand plucking at the collar of his shirt and undoing the first several buttons of it to give him more air. It’s the swelter at the core of him that causes discomfort as it throbs, fissures in his resolve overtaken by the pulse and rush of liquid heat that’ll do the same to his self – respect and senses if he has to wait around at this pub any longer for the mechanic next door to finish diagnosing whats wrong with the engine of his bike.
———❝ I don’t exactly know why you called me over, but since it’s close, I don’t mind you camping out in my air conditioned living room. ❞ The man finished his chilled beer, noting the differences in Jude’s (mood as he complained about some kind of heat. Personally, Elliot found it to be somewhat manageable next to the fan, warm air circulating rather than remaining stagnant and heavy. Leaving a tip next to the empty bottle, the man pat Jude on the back and started crossing to the door.
❝ Think you’ll make it two blocks to the U-bahn? ❞
starchild ! visions are born from the unknown force. it dominates the way of time. the dream only ends, when the worlds come to an end starchild ! you cannot escape to the dark streams of the sea to suppress your dreams. nothing can keep you away from the need to create ’cause your path is free! / promo credit.
———❝ As much as I love lilies, my cat getting sick is another story. ❞ Clad in black, the man entered the quaint flower shop with an order in mind. It had been some time since he’d last attended a funeral. People he knew often died around him, but by that point, he was long forgotten. Here was someone important enough, he would attend having never seen the invitation.
❝ I’m not exactly the best at flower language, but I’m told you’re pretty knowledgeable on the subject. ❞
———There was a certain beauty at the end of the blade. He’d never admit it out of fear of his sanity, but the man felt intoxicated at this very second. His code denied all connection to the kill, knowing how it would change him were he to find pleasure in bloodshed. A part of you died with them when you became attached.
Lifting from beside the limp body, the masked man wiped the blade on its lapel. Clean, quick, and humane. He didn’t need to complicate it with further creativity. A silent word uttered, he lifted his hand to begin the immolation, before pausing.
* RUSSIAN LITERATURE AESTHETIC . bold whatever applies to / attracts your muse.
BROTHERS KARAMAZOV / orthodox monasteries, deep woods, starry nights, the sound of paper being torn, dimly lit rooms, withered roses, an unfinished letter, piles of books, the sound of shattering glass, ticking of clocks in a silent house, heavy wooden furniture, the air before a storm, the smell of earth, a crowd of people dressed in black, distant murmurs, emptied streets, the fear of walking alone in dusk.
CRIME AND PUNISHMENT / coldness of the skin against a blade, slender pale fingers and slightly shaking hands, a red stain blooming on white fabric, lonely steps in a corridor, the slow dripping of water, looking out a window into the thickening darkness, a single dying candle on the table, listening to one’s breath and counting heartbeats, too many stairs, the desire to be invisible, a subtle memory of kind word.
THE IDIOT / classical statues, wealth covered with dust, a dark house tainted with inherited madness, an unsettling feeling, long walks in a park, useless chatter, a silken ribbon forgotten on a bench,a melancholic face, an unexpected spring rain, the joy of reading one’s favorite book, the clarity of mind after fully perceiving the world around, looking at cloudless sky.
ANNA KARENINA / fields of crops, flowers brought from an early morning walk, the wind caressing a girl’s hair, a bowl of fruit, the smell of ripe pears, the clatter of a spoon against porcelain when stirring tea, children’s laughter coming from the garden, soft sunlight and white curtains, the sensation of velvet against skin, pearls from a ripped necklace spilling on marble floor, a sudden silence in a room full of people.
WAR AND PEACE / a glass of wine, the brightness of a crystal chandelier, white lace, a raging snow storm,the sound of a door being gently closed, the moment of holding one’s breath before walking in a ball room, indulging in looking at a beautiful earring against light, closing one’s eyes for a moment while dancing, the sweet smell of strawberries, a pair of gloves left on an armchair, light scent of powder.
THE MASTER AND MARGARITA /the chaos of a lively city, ambient jazz in expensive restaurants, jumping on a moving tram, the sight of moscow from the roof of a house, yellow flowers in a vase, leaning out of the window, shelves stacked with books, a small tin box with old photographs, strange shapes in the night sky, laughing in the middle of the night on a balcony, colorful posters for a surreptitious magician’s show floating in the wind.
EUGENE ONEGIN /a lonely mansion, reading a book in the parlor, faint piano melody lingering in falling silence, long evenings, passing seasons, discussing french novels of the moment, unspoken thoughts, leaning against the door frame, quickly averted glance, eating a peach absent-minded, bright mornings, footprints in snow, a loud gun-shot terrifying a flock of birds nearby.
FATHERS AND SONS / birch groves, morning mist, moss-covered stones near a moor, scientific books, white roses, cheap champagne, shabby pocket-watch, light-hearted irony, a maladroit cello sonata, freshly mowed grass, leaving thoughts come and go, a slow yawn, picturesque plates and bowls filled with traditional dishes, drinking tea on the porch.
DOCTOR ZHIVAGO / a strange feeling of loss, writing poems in a diary, traveling by train, the hesitation before touching someone’s hand, the gaze of one lost in thought, the warmth of cinnamon, a scarf brightly embellished with flowers, a glass of water, a threadbare jacket, the tempting void,the evanescent serenity of yesterday.
CHERRY ORCHARD / a lone chair in an empty room, falling blossoms, old samovar, the unsettling need for change, a mirror reflecting full moon, the disappointment of a glossy object turning worthless after second glance, a piano out of tune.
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