[1] It's Getting Cold Outside. It's Has Snowed Way Too Much And The Gang Are Literally Stuck @ Monmouth

This was not a rattlesnake hidden in the grass, but a deadly coral snake striped with warning colors. Everything about him was a warning: If this snake bit you, you had no one to blame but yourself.

it’s hard out here for a baby-faced demon

i can’t get adam parrish: spontaneous sleeper off my mind like…..

adam routinely falling asleep on gansey’s shoulder whenever he sits shotgun in the pig

ronan being put on ‘crash watch’ during latin because everone knows that adam hates sleeping in class but sometimes it just happens

(crash watch includes taking adam’s notes, waking him up ~gently~, and being a good boyf)

adam and persephone having naps in cabeswater after he finishes his training for the day

sometimes blue encourages adam to sleep when they hang out. usually he ends up sprawled over her lap and snoring loudly as she watches sitcoms, and usually orla or persephone document it in the form of like 60 pictures

blue had one printed and taped to her wall

noah and adam staying up late and talking and talking until they end up cuddled on adam’s bed (adam is lil’ spoon ofc)

adam sleeping in the hondayota during his breaks 

ronan and adam staying up studying for finals and adam eventually slumping over and crashing on ronan’s lap (ronan’s face is so red google earth can see him through the roof of st. agnes)

Ask any woman & she’ll tell you why Eve bit / into that apple. Why she chose the universe instead / of you.

Topaz Winters, from “Witch in Red,” published in heather press (via lifeinpoetry)

Chloe x Halle - who knew

5 things about the apocalypse

one.  after the sun is eaten, our shadows outgrow our bodies and the stars i took for gods go out. while i did not sleep i heard laughter—cacophonous, full of teeth. at the end i am eating tinned peaches and casting dice on the ground, in expectation of wings, of light, of anything but this stupefied cold, this silence which is an obscenity.

two.  the hungry are weeping as they walk. i have seen a man open another’s ribs like a pair of doors, unseal him where the chest is soft, harrow him for red. they eat only the heart, the first-formed part, cradled and chewed between two horrified hands. fed, they are hungrier. in this corrupt light, the gullet-red of appetite, their faces shine wet and without mercy.

three.  we send up prayers like the last of flares, phosphorus breaking upon midnight. the horizon is a hot wound parting: the dead climb out of their deep tenements, and we greet them, shaken. what does it matter that they are as pale as guilt, that their eyes do not seek us, that they shrink from us in dismay?

four.  yesterday, the words went from us. they left our books and maps and gravestones, emptied our histories and speeches and songs. they fled our throats, and made barren our mouths. in your bible genesis is a cenotaph; nothing is begotten. i hold your hands and i have no voice to speak your living name, to tell you that i am full of fear and relief.

five. it is written on a wall in jerusalem: τετέλεσται. the stars have already fallen, and she proclaims that she is the mouth of god. you go among the crowd to hear her speak, in the brick-husk of the chapel of the holy face. the look of her roars down your blood. men come for her at night, cut out her tongue and string her up by the neck in the muristan. you are kneeling in your kitchen as the earth shakes, and over that great distance you still hear her voice on the wind, causing the dust to rise. it is finished.

(six.  we held each other all night, deep in the rot, our arms helplessly tender. late was the coming of light, a whiteness so bright it seemed infernal, lifting us into a hollow morning, and what breath we were was shaken from us—

and we were dead a little while longer then, cool and adrift on the surface of the abandoned world.)

Take Me Home, Country Roads by John Denver except it’s playing from your neighbor’s radio that you can hear from your back porch, which you sit out on to relax in spite of the loud buzzing from the lightbulb and the hoards of moths that flock to it on summer evenings like this.

weird noises: happen in the wee hours

me, unaffected: the only supernatural and ominous force in this place is me and i was here first, so whatever and whoever you are you need to Go

I don’t know, my favorite was always witch weather. That moment that in a gust of wind or in the rumbling sky or at the edge of a fog bank where suddenly, you feel different. A restlessness, a sense of longing for a place that does not exist. I don’t know if anyone else has felt the electric tense changing of that moment. It calls the magic to your skin. For a moment, you feel ancient and powerful and lonely, as if you forgot something important. Witch weather. For some reason, in that wild instant: you remember you are alive, and that means some part of you belongs to the everlasting.