las noches.
ii.
beseech.
iii.
read.
iv.
once.
v.
theme
Anonymous ;  
△ and what if you hadn't have been scraped off the floor and hadn't been taken under his wing. what then, ulquiorra. what would have happened.

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                                           invasive questions.
                                              ——— unwillingness to answer: 1.

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                 THE FLOOR — — !?
               pray not, the filth he stepped upon now
               was not of the same consistency he had
               been lifted up from as true phoenixes with
               mounted flame wings, rock as moon but
               molten and gaseous as great suns which
               dwarfed even the static shock of his mobile
               destruction. pray tell, rather, of the perfect
               white canvas he had crucified himself upon
               by the guidance of his mistress bat-dragon
               death; it is of true beauty, but cardinally, he
               must cleanse his mind’s palette of the previ-
               -ously imagined gutters which inevitably
               formed of the mulch that occupies las noches
               alongside himself.

               vast lord of his own ghostly utopia, he had
               seen upon the forwards reaching, unattain-
               -able horizon the mirage of a tree matching
               in bleakness to what had been sculpted of
               his once humanly form, beautiful marble in
               awaiting of further refinement in order to at
               least reach the galaxies trapped so far from
               entering breathing lips and being swallowed
               to the matching despairs of his stomach. who
                then, was to tell him between mouthfuls of
                his unprotected flesh that he could not venture
                towards the only true emptiness ( there was
                difference to be had between existing and
                merely blending in without meaning, and the
                void of existence — able to be touched in its
                tangibility, but not at all attainable lest LEST
                YOU RR RR RR———-RIP IT OUT OF YOURSELF!
                HANDFULS! HANDFULS! FILL THE OCEANS! ) ?
                his cross had been a mismatched trail of branches
                creating one too many hole within him, with no
                blood to seep through cracks which closed
                around wounds as though to accept them, to
                everything in its right place.

                he supposed, if he had not been graced upon
                by the guiding will of sunless sun kissed and
                incarnate god, he would have remained exalted
                on his site of piercing for thousands upon the
                thousands years he’d already been at peace.

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madkxng ;  

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                                             writing process.
                       how did you get a grip on your muse’s character?

                i didn’t give up. i had lots of opportunity to, but i 
                stuck with what i was doing because it was fun 
                and people gave me support. i’m really grateful
                for that. i found music and art and ideals to base
                my entire characterization of off — and said to hell
                with canon limitations. once you destroy boundaries,
                you have a lot of fun and you get in deep. i have
                confidence in myself and what i do, because if i didn’t,
                i’d never do anything. i took to heart what people
                said to me on how i could improve, and ran with it.
                i’ll never forget when someone told me to have
                ulquiorra speak less. my early writing of him is awful
                until i got that advice. then my writing really changed
                once i realized there was more to it than dialogue.
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Anonymous ;  

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                                             writing process.
                                 aquiilae & heartofspoopy asked;
                       what do you look for in other people’s writing?

                i look for people who really care about what they’re
                writing. people who give their characters more than
                a glance and then start writing them — people who
                really delve into their canons but, moreover, their
                headcanons. i follow my headcanons over canon,
                so why not look for more of that? i also look for a style
                that’d work good with mine; which doesn’t really have
                a standard or anything specific i can list.

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Title: Don't Get In My Way
Artist: Zack Hemsey
Played: 156 times

So if you want to push, I’m a shove
If you want to spar we can do it no gloves
And if you’re gonna run at me you better do it hard
Cuz I fear no fall, no brawl, no scars

I’m two pounds shy of a bomb
I’m one shade short of alarm
I’m too past wrath that I’m calm
Got two last laughs in my palms

I’m three degrees west of a hurricane
Four wheel drive with a ball ‘n chain
My five-foot-seven is irrelevant
I’m SIX-SIX-SIX if you threaten my development

aboomoo ;  
△ How much do you actually care? About this squad, about me?

invasive questions.
    unwillingness to answer: 1.

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   blessed ennui
      and its tag alongs of apathetic lead — how they
      grace him in times of necessity and the lack of
      enthusiasm for all life and its mysteries of care,
      how they allow him to take the law within his open,
      emptied palms, and guide it to lodge firmly within
      his chest as a replacement, his blood of bloods
      and life of lives. is the law, the masses might weep
      with reddened eyes of misunderstanding, their un-
      -knowledge stemming from their humanity, what you
      care about!? do you care about the law and its righteous
      upholders, your soldiers!? it would be, then, in answer
      a glaring cross of denial he hoists onto his shoulders,
      for such is the burden he carries, and carries well.

      no matter how long faithful and true blue ayumu has
      slain over the desk he granted her, and no matter the
      kindness of her turmoiled heart, he cannot comprehend
      its mechanics and therefore kindle himself by the fire
      of her care. it is a difficult thing, to be of martyr kind
      and distance oneself from those one must cut apart
      the veins unto — for those who are incapable of the work.

      the gods of justice and jurisprudence have looked upon
      him with goodness, the only sort he has ever known, and
      gifted him with zanpakutō vile, but their souls are theirs
      alone to look after. he is merely the vessel from which they
      instruct and, in thus following manner, holds clutched to
      a law book chest, antipathy.

      it is remarkably unchallenging to look away with no weight
      of responsibility.

renjiaboorai ;  
"You'll carry it with you if you want to survive.'

florence & the machine sentences.

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   blood boiling countenance
      of ire that is no longer present within him, perfect being of
      illustrious enlightenment who realizes he need not strong
      wills to do great evils of the light, might have once been a
      factor to consider in his reactionary still. the cant talk of this
      torturous soul was of illegible, carrying no meaning to him
      who undoubtedly understood all manner of speech. he of all
      languages cannot decipher the carriage mentioned by —
      WHO IS HE? a court of five hundred tosses their judging
      stones as arrow rain from the acropolis outcrop, outrage he
      feeds through his unfeeling, WHO IS HE? WHO IS THIS FLASH
      OF RED? WASTE! WASTE! WASTE! WASTE! indeed now he
      ponders the familiarity of a marked face, ponders the reason
      of his continued existence. wastes should be properly disposed
      of ( it is not of his desire to bother in such, enlisting the helps
      by lowly serving brutes to do the bidding of the ultimate scapegoat
      servant [ he understands his purpose well, but not that of opposite
      contender ] ), and yet here before him is the epitome of lacklustre.
      if grasping beauty and subsequent lack of such was a property
      of his psyche, red would be decidedly hideous.

      sharpened points of dragon talons — —

and i saw a beast rising out of the sea
WITH TEN HORNS AND SEVEN HEADS
with ten diadems on its horns and blasphemous
names on its heads.

and to it the dragon gave his power, and his
throne and great authority. one of its heads
seemed to have a mortal wound, but the mortal
wound was healed, and the whole world marvelled
as they followed the beast. and they worshipped the
dragon, for he had given his authority to the beast,
saying,

WHO IS LIKE THE BEAST,
AND WHO CAN FIGHT AGAINST IT?

      — — etch crosses, down, side, down side, down side, down
      side, strokes of bloodied scar that rose to scab before it healed
      over, in consideration of the meaning of what was given to him
      from the lips of red deceiver. surely, he must be a famed liar with
      no part grain of truth, for it is a humourous consideration, that he
      must do anything to survive but be as he is. in tow, he has with
      him the weight of murciélago, merciful mistress of supernovae in
      unbroken crown ( in the same aforethought hypothetical situation
      of the existence and understanding of beauty, she is its supreme
      definer, and he will lay her and her diamonds, pearls, power, glory
      down ), and if she is what burden spread across his shoulders that
      is necessary for survival, his not surviving is even grander of a chortle.

Sometimes I feel like I’m not solid. I’m hollow. There’s nothing behind my eyes. I’m a negative of a person. All I want is blackness, blackness and silence.
—Sylvia Plath  (via impxster)

the struggle not to roll my eyes at people when they talk

inspirenjional:

The aura is only vaguely familiar, but everything is heavy with a thick fog of death in this place. This place- these arrancar, the supposed beginnings of a new species, a the dawn of a infant civilization the likes of which to rival the souls of the living and the so-called ‘whole’ dead, the latter of which which had been armed with nails and with teeth and with hot, spiky, bloody hatred just to keep the hollows out

If that were any of Renji’s immediate business- or was perhaps more engaged in politics- he might be inclined to care more. He might be inclined to recognize this specter wrapped in white cloth like burial shrouds as a hazard, as toxic-waste green instead of lamb-skin white. But the Stray does not, and maybe it is apathy and maybe it is the exact opposite. He learns like a predator, through observation, through pawing at the unknown with heavy, black claws and cracking it between snapping jaws. It’s the survivalist’s gamble, the great evolutionary game of chance- who is more laden with stronger poison sitting in their veins, more acid gold in covetously hidden venom sacs? And who will need to use it when the time comes? 

They are in ‘peace-time’ for lack of a better phrase to describe the crossings between the Gotei and the blind hand of Hunco Mundo. Renji is not expected to encounter any organized resistance or hostility. But a planet built on the backs of demons, of snapping, hungry maws that rip souls apart like a blade rips through flesh is a planet assembled, in theory, with some hostility naturally inclined.

And any creature used to slithering around the heels of the arguably strongest forces of the known universe on a regular basis knows how to taste the familiar scent of power, engorged and obscene, on it’s flitting, forked tongue. He can taste it on the empty soul like the taste of metal and blood and volcanic ashes, and he would rather see the source of that taste speared than see it on in any war’s army, but he is ordered (to strongly paraphrase) not to waste his body dying out here in the vast nighttime void when he could waste it dying on a slab of rubble on the front lines.

Such is the ever bubbling spring of faith that brings Renji back to this hellhole. He doesn’t for a moment doubt that his own blood is still buried somewhere under these very ruins.

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"Listen, pal-"

There’s not much bark to back up that bluff, a cautious pawing at the creature rising out of the sand like a leviathan out of the sea. But it’s energy feels almost more of ‘object’ more than ‘creature’. Renji’s voice projects the toneless, kindless rasp of the a solider encountering the enemy that he was trained to be.

                  “I don’t know how you ‘locals’ do it. But ‘s far as I know, when                     someone talks t’ ya’ it’s real nice to listen.

He may he out of his depth here. The being that stands before him might not even be capable of speech for all Renji knows. And it would be just his luck for the first thing that looks like it might be worth any use to be, in reality, too primitive for communication. 

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  “— — — i’m always listening.”
      true nuclear winter from breadth breath as JUDGE
     JURY  EXECUTIONER JUDGE JURY EXECUTIONER
     JUDGE JURY EXECUTIONER JUDGE JURY EXEC-
     -UTIONER spreads the jaws of little part life and
     majority steel bite. he is of stainless steel words;
     the great rip of flesh twined hinges, ahstop… a
     part is trapped, grown from disuse over a incisor as
     flowers in an unmilled, undeveloped land, now fused
     to metal as though it is truly accepted in the vast
     ecosystem of grandiose pallidity his body has always
     been. captured, then, is this skin, until constricting
     tendrils of snake fingers are so merciful as to lift it
     over, snap! it into place beneath the artificial lip of
     knives for teeth.

     until, the alliteration of four… four… four… four…, it
     is indeed captured as a spider might spin himself into
     a web of his own patterned madness, pleading of his
     mistakes and, lo, glinting eyes of terror and pincers of
     I MEANT TO DO IT as he rejoices in his capabilities to
     yet survive himself — for if he might weather the storm
     of his entangling wrath, he is most powerful. he knows
     a spider far too well, within their own respective labo-
     -ratory he dares not venture into ( unspeakable horror
     he already is, and has witnessed — oh, so not to swallow
     a carefully constructed train of fluidity in thought, he
     recalls many a time of destroyed mirrors so has not to
     gaze upon tear irrationality — it is not worry of what cannot
     be stomached ), but dogs he knows not. what enigmas
     swathed in the intricacies of pound paradoxes he finds
     them to be; and scalpels are dull in comparison to his
     gleaming discernment, which sculpts away blackened
     robe and flesh of unworth.

     blessed with insight and its subsequent intelligence
     ( observation for many multiples of thousands in year
     counts harbours only the greatest such ), cifer martyred
     finds, verily, many a thing to consider for this intruder’s
     intrusion. would he sooner be assimilated into the deepest
     intestine of a great fish in the oceans of barrenness than
     find the reason for his coming here? is he the crimson cain,
     come to strip him of his god’s favour and all the fruitful
     harvests of his working hands? laughable, the notion of
     being at all overpowered. DASH HIM UPON THE STONES.
     BLEED OUT THE EXCESS LITTER — WHAT FILTH. alas,
     beauteous servants are rid of anger, and any ideas borne
     of anger induced activities are product of inky evils come,
     all bared tentacle, to become tyrants. he is met his allowance
     of sing song breath through the tubes of a metal throat.

grishildr ;  
"I never knew daylight could be so violent."

florence & the machine sentences.

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   AND NO MARVEL;
      FOR SATAN HIMSELF IS TRANSFORMED INTO
      AN ANGEL OF LIGHT. is it of any surprise, that
      the most destructive thing would be something of
      peace and hope? for god so loved the world, he
      harnessed not the moon and its stand still tug and
      pull ( no doubt, a blackened moon too close would
      raise waves too high — but can the sun not scorch
      what was water, and the steam was only the jurisdiction
      of the heat to create burns that would go by without
      soothing, devoured water ), but he took into his hands
      the brilliant toxic star, and catered to it with hydrous
      words of benevolence. inactive violence, with no arg-
      -ument worthy of the marbled maze of his ears, was
      the all consuming factor of natural selection.

      those with anger detectable to all around became
      spectacles, easily observed, and therefore an alarm
      ringing long before it is struck. but hark! he is the
      silent doom; faraway quasars building speed and,
      for precious minutes, cooling before striking. inaction
      provides a palpable air of suspense, so thick no
      muscle corded arm of even the tallest, overshadowing
      of giants could strike through it. inaction becomes his
      bared weapon, not the stirrings of blades and the both-
      -ersome burden of abilities. is it yet still any surprise that
      he, wondrous archangel, is capable of terribly beautiful
      massacres? beware; pointed queen, he is a magma liquid spear.