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babe wake up october 2024 just dropped
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I am once again drawing Beetlejuice
jonathan harker on may 12th: i witnessed with abject terror as the count descended the sheer stone wall of the castle face first as a lizard would. the unmitigated horror of the spectacle haunts my waking hours like an inescapable nightmare. this man or this thing shall surely be my undoing.
jonathan harker on may 15th: saw the old bastard do the crawling trick again and honestly fuck him it's not even that impressive i don't even care anymore i hope he falls.
I’m sat drunk in the beer garden of a rock bar and some chick is happily explaining that “So Jonathan Harker goes to this castle in Transylvania and he doesn’t know he’s in Dracula, right” to a guy who seems totally enthralled and I wish them nothing but the best
Whispers of Autumn
I remember the way the seasons would turn,
How autumn arrived with its soft, gentle burn.
The leaves would fall, golden and bright,
Like whispers of secrets that fade with the light.
It was months before the trees turned red,
I saw you then, but you turned your head.
I lingered, hoping for that fleeting glance,
And when you caught me, it felt like a chance.
Not just once, but again and again,
Our eyes would meet in that silent refrain.
People talked, their voices a soft rustle,
But we stayed quiet, lost in the subtle.
Outside the classroom, you’d be near,
Your presence behind me, always clear.
We never spoke, but your eyes said enough,
In that autumn air, we shared something tough.
Thirteen years since those moments we knew,
And still, your shadow lingers, so true.
Your gaze, your silence, it shaped my past,
A memory that echoes, meant to last.
You’ve built a life now, with love and a home,
And sometimes I wonder, when I’m alone—
Was our silence a blessing or a curse left behind?
A story untold, a love undefined?
If you had wanted, you would’ve made it clear,
But perhaps the quiet was all we could bear.
Maybe it was the silence that held us tight,
A love that was felt but never took flight.
As autumn returns, I feel the same weight,
The brush of the wind, the threads of our fate.
The leaves still fall, they don’t whisper your name,
But in the rustling, I hear echoes of the same.
Perhaps it’s the autumn, or the memory we keep,
That binds me to moments I still silently reap.
We were always the season that never quite came,
A fleeting love, lost in autumn’s soft frame.
how to make a girl happy:
step 1: buy her a collection of short stories of Edgar Allan Poe