"you have a worthless president who killed any and all hope he inspired in an entire generation every state is bankrupt your entire financial system is a sham and exists only to finish sucking dry whatever money you have left you have a giant oil gusher down south that will not stop rich people dont even have to be covert about the fact that they can literally buy laws to fuck you personally a massive portion of your country is now reliant on aid programs for food you literally cant even afford to pay unemployment benefits anymore, despite it being paid in to for years and years and years by everyone healthcare is a distant dream for some and a nightmare for most you have zero fucking infrastructure and that precious little that you do have is either WPA-era and crumbling or 80s era and was shit to begin with
BUT HAY AT LEAST YOU HAVE A GIANT MILITARY THAT CANT EVEN DEFEAT SOME GUYS LIVING IN CAVES AFTER 10 YEAR”
“Rops used different models for his Buveuse d’Absinthe, but it seems they had to live the part. He offered a newly drawn Buveuse
d’Absinthe for exhibition in 1876, explaining to a friend: ‘it’s a girl called Marie Joliet who arrives every evening drunk at the Bal Bullier and who sees with eyes of electric death. I had her pose and I worked to take down just what I saw.’”—The Virtual Absinthe Museum: Artists - Felicien Rops
Ah, Silas. I still remember the color of his eyes, slate grey, reflecting the sea, just after breakfast aboard the Apologetic. The old people were shuffleboarding behind us, I think we must have both needed the air. I remember that I returned his long gaze with a nod, and he smiled, lifting one corner of his mouth like a shrug.
“That handkerchief is silk,” I said, drawing next to him at the rail. “The rain will ruin it.”
Silas’ long hands moved to his breast where he grasped, and pinched, and finally pulled that long, dove-colored swatch from his pocket. It crumpled protectively in his fist, soaked raindrops blinking on the silk. Silas held this out to me.
I covered his fist with my hands, moving nearer. “It will get wet,” I said. “Please, be careful.” The wind had picked up, and my hat ribbons lifted like pennants. But my words were soft, and I knew he heard them. The bright clouds and cold made his skin snowy, rosy around the cheeks and nostrils. I thought of yellow cherries. The blush of them, and how sick you’d get in February, racing to eat them all before the season closed. I was glutted on Silas. I fancied I spit his bones out like pits, but maybe that was the plash of the waves.
I don’t know how long we stood together like that, how long my hands cupped his cold fingers and wet silk, and how I wanted to make him warm again. I could almost taste his rough knuckles, salty from the deck rail, melting on my lips. But I didn’t dare. I could not even turn to see if the shuffleboarders had acquiesced to the weather.
Years later, I found that dove-grey scrap stuffed in a glove inside a velvet purse. A stale peppermint, an opera stub, and there it was. I held it to my lips and breathed: salt, and bergamot, and yes, a frisson of faintest sulfur. Sulfur, from the Marianas Trench.