I’m not taking commissions very often (normally at all), but my financial status hit rock bottom which is saying something considering i was dirt poor to begin with and well, some of you are probably quite familiar with my physical and mental state but let’s just say they are not very good, so here we are. HELP ME PLEASE SO I WON’T HAVE TO DIE
Important things not mentioned above:
For digital commissions you get a high quality image
For traditional commissions you get a high quality image and if you’d like i can also send you the picture for an extra 5 USD for the shipping costs
I use PayPal
Wardrobe game here! (sorry mom for still stealing your site but you’ll never know)
Other ways to support me if you don’t want a commission but still wish to help me feed myself and my two adorable cats (this is an overstatement, they are hellspawns):
ko-fi
redbubble
society6
inprnt
Reblogs can also help a lot.
Feel free to ask anything!
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In a certain sense the past is far more real, or at any rate more stable, more resilient than the present. The present slips and vanishes like sand between the fingers, acquiring material weight, only in its recollection.
Andrei Tarkovsky, from Sculpting in Time: Reflections on the Cinema, trans. Kitty Hunter-Blair (University of Texas Press, 1986)
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series obsessed about in 2017 → will
i can’t read people’s minds. i’m not a jedi. people just like to tell me things.
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We’re waiting by the willow
Our milky milky cradle
Our lockets long have rusted
His picture worn and weathered
Our hair is in the garden
Our voices in mitosis
Our wombs are in the blossoms
Our arms are in the branches
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it beckons below the surface
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Walking in a Winter Wonderland... | by Svetlana Peric.
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The roses of Heliogabalus (detail) 1888. Lawrence Alma-Tadema
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Out of jasmine the night’s blood streams white.
Your perfume, my weakness and your secret, follows me like a snakebite
Mahmoud Darwish (via honeyandelixir)
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There’s probably a German compound word for that feeling you get at 2am when you’re single in your mid twenties and the creeping doubt that you’ve somehow missed your only chance at love because you didn’t meet someone in college and now it’s too late
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Edward Burne-Jones, Love Among The Ruins (detail), Watercolor Version, c.1872
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