i come home from work. i stare at elias. i go to sleep.

Random Harvest (1942) dir. Mervyn LeRoy

Just like Elias this blog will never die baby

you know how many uncanny valley creatures in literature are all consider unworldly beautiful and perfect? looks at nikola

thinking about the stranger again and how much i love all of its weird little spawns 😔

*sexily breaks law* *sexily breaks law* *sexily breaks law* *sexily breaks law* *sexily breaks law* *sexily bre

Barnabas, hopeful: There's only one thing worse than being alone...

*reveals the word above it*

Jonah, deadpan: Dying

*disgruntled noises as Barnabas gets consumed by the Lonely*

paravatis

❝ an esper is basically someone with psychic abilities and uh… never really seen any do things like that if i’m being honest here. ❞   but this certainly caught his interest, what was with this guy and how was he able to do that with his tattoo? maybe it was something worth snooping on more.

                        𝐏𝐒𝐘𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐂?  His  hands  level  out,  black  and  white  tattoos  once  more  reverting  back  to  their  original  state  as  he  tucks  them  in  his  pockets,  lips  pursed    in  amusement.  The  tattoos  were  merely  a  parlor  trick  compare  to  his  true  feats.  Surely  these  espers,  possessed  feats  greater  than  that. ❝ What do they usually do? ❞

Aluminum Vintage Medical Prosthetic Eye Display with Prosthetic Eyes.  

leavyes​:

Reverence was not a requirement of the Eye, but that did not mean that Mr. Talbot didn’t have it in spades. After all, what was Miskatonic, if not a breeding ground for New England’s finest young cultists? It had become more inclusive in the past hundred or so years, but that much was still true. Levi had abandoned the God of his forefathers for another, a god of Knowledge, and Seeing, and though he’d broken his covenant on the best of terms, he had no intention of going back, and had packed a box of love and of awe ( awe as in amazement, awe as in terror ) and carried it with him to his new place of worship. Hadn’t he already spent years prostrating himself before the television? Was this really such a change? ( He walks through his sunken dream to the seat with the clearest view, and he’s hooked to the silver screen. )

       The body as an eye, every part and piece working in harmony to create a vehicle for seeing. A camera. A brain. Humans are just brains on sticks surrounded by meat. Take away the meat, suddenly see more. Sweet understanding. Are you afraid of death? Do you lie awake at night, gripped by terror, sweating into your sheets, imagining just how your flesh will eventually give out? Don’t you want better flesh? New flesh? Long Live the New Flesh. He had transmogrified his skin and bones and in doing so had given himself a purpose: record, rewind, replay, and recontextualize. Compartmentalize. Categorize. Put the information on flimsy, flammable reels, and preserve it. Then, if the occasion arose, televise fear: horror delivered straight through the pupil to the cortex, with technicolor afterimages near-impossible to shake. Reality was subjective to a degree, but humans shared common emotions, and sought to parse reality by throwing those emotions up for everyone to see, on stone, on paper, on film– and thus, the ‘human experience’ began to boil down to something that could be almost universally understood– and thus, art offered a glimpse of reality more accurate than not. Myrrh for a god of Seeing, offered up on an IMAX altar.

       “Thank you, Mr. Bouchard.” Reverence for the Eye – reverence for its representative on Earth. For the one who would bring their apocalypse about and grant ultimate knowing to all of humanity, Levi could have nothing but respect and admiration. ( Funny, then, that he didn’t Know what was really to come. )

       “–I’m sorry, distribute it?” The light cut out, and his normal lenses slid back into place, clicking into his skull audibly. He shook his head to make sure that they were set, then turned to blink at his employer. “That is…” A very bad idea. He didn’t need to voice it; Elias would Know. But it was what he wanted, and who was Levi to deny him? That said, delivering them in person would more than likely get him killed. “Uh– hmm. Um. Mm. Oh! Do we have– Breekon & Hope in our contact book?”

                     𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐈𝐓.  Elias  knows.  An  empty  laugh  fills  the  blank  margins  of  their  conversation--it  seems  preferable  to  the  reserved  pause  and  quizzical  stare.  Wasting  no  time,  the  contact’s  location  comes  in  to  form,  guiding  through  the  inner  workings  of  the  other’s  mind.  Filing  cabinet  behind  Rosie’s  desk,  second  drawer  from  the  top.

        ❝ We do. ❞  He  declares  with  the  slightest  hint  of  pride,  though  the  concept  of  calling  them  does  tickle  him  in  earnest.  The  number  is  new--a  decade  or  two  used  max--taken  from  a  family  business   back  in  the  90′s  and  stored  on  a  faded  index  card  with  two  strings  of  numbers.  The  first  line  was  landlocked,  centered  neatly  between the lines.  Then  a  number  directly  below.  A  cell  phone  added  in  more  recent  years.  Elias  couldn’t  recall  the  last  time  he used  the  index,  or  if  he  ever  did.  Worldly  connections  seemed  inferiority  and  horribly  unacquainted  with  the  pair’s  keen  since  of  purpose.  They  always  seemed  to  just  Know  when  their  presence  was  needed.  An  offering  from  The  Watcher?  Apparently,  one  of  the  many  bestowed  from  all factions  of  fear.

        ❝ If they are not preoccupied you may use their service for all but Orsinov. ❞  A stern  gaze  lives  up  to  his  patron’s  namesake  and  cuts  deep.  When  John  was  taken  by  the  Stranger,  Elias  had  been  truthful  about  his  blind spot.  He  tried  to  catch  a  glimpse  through  the eyes  of  Breekon  or  Hope  but  surrounds  never  quite  reaches  his  own.  Possibly  due  to  their  ties  to  the  other  entities,  or  the  fixated  origin  of  the  Stranger.  He  was  never  quite  sure  about  their  genesis  and  while  the  curiosity  of  it  all  did  nip  at  his  heels  from  their  first  delivery  to  Millbank  Prison,  Elias  out  runs  them.  He’s  always  been  a  clever  coward.

     ❝ Sorry, I don’t Know what that is. Does this qualify? ❞ He  bares  his  palms  to  the  green  creature,  real  eyes  manifesting  in  the  bounds  of  where  his  tattoo  eyes  were  just  moments  before.  They  blink  out  of  tandem  while  keeping  focus  on  Dimple.

@bcholding​

❝ i take you’re able to see me since you followed my movement for a bit now. what are you and esper? ❞   the spirit asked as he stared to the other, a brow raised. he had nothing better to do at the moment so why not find out about this stranger?

you're the only man i want near me this valentine's day.

i’m the only man who will come near you this valentine’s day.

@containsmultitvdes​:

“Of course. I wouldn’t be much of a journalist if I hadn’t heard of it, would I?” Grimmer chuckles, “Still, I’d like a tour, if you’d be willing to do the honors, Mr. Bouchard. I’d really like to see what the Institute is all about, if you don’t mind. You can only learn so much by reading about a place like this, and with it being a public place and all, I’m sure you’ve got nothing to hide as you claim.”

His smile, closed-mothed as always, narrows his eyes. Call it a former spy’s intuition, but he knows something is very amiss here. Elias Bouchard must be one of the hardest to read and most unnerving person he’s ever met.

     ❝ Certainly. Right this way. ❞ Elias smiles and shifts to turn towards where the heart of the institute stood before them, open and inviting to walk its twisting halls with signs placed near each intersections pointing to certain areas open to the public. At the first step in their tour, the lecture began.

        ❝ The Magnus Institute was established in 1818 by Jonah Magnus. Mr. Magnus came into the world at the home of... ❞  He produces a script that does not tarry for questions or interruptions. His words crisp and articulated with excessive vanity, that bores from having practice his monologue for centuries. While the names and tenses shift with the years, the core bulk of his speech has remained the same. Neither does his pace as they pop in and out of rooms that hold less significates to them.

happy valentines day.

youre nb but you call yourself a bitch (bitch is a FEMALE dog btw) why???

i am on the FLOOR