Harold Cazneaux ~ Untitled (Phillida Cooper, daughter of journalist Nora Cooper in ballet dress), ca. 1932 | src Art Gallery of NSW

qsmp francophone cubitos and their dynamic drive me wild, they all know they’re mutually lying and obscuring the truth to one another, they all know they’re keeping each other at arm’s distance, they all know they’re not as open as they once were when it was just them and the aftermath of a plane crash, but the love is still there. the worry and the concern. they pry information out of one another in supposedly subtle ways that really just convey how much they still care about each other. what’s your stance on the federation. how’s your code arm doing. even if in the end you don’t turn to me, please call out to someone. maybe looking out for yourself is looking out for others as well. i don’t know you anymore but i will protect the unknown anyway

i'm watching old concert videos again and theyre all so beautiful and full of life and i wanna go deep into the woods and scream and sing along to every single song

there's something truly special about the night in summer

okay we have officially entered the Winter Break Is Driving Me Mad zone

I can and will make you believe it's the wrong day of the week

OH I FORGOT TO ANSWER THIS ASK--

How dare >:[

oh my godddd we finally have a storm we haVE A STORM THERE'S LIGHTNING AND THUNDER AND EVERYTHING

OPEN starter to males ( preferably 30+ and older ) || ft. persephone || based on THIS post and THIS post || ft. beta editor

“ i don't know what else you want from me! i'm completely learning everything from scratch with no history in dancing what-so-ever, but here i am still. let me remind you that i'm trying to save your ass, when all i really wanna do is drop you on it! ” he was so infuriating, repeatedly getting on to her for not having the drop and turn just right, but she was trying. the rapidly growing crush she had wasn't helping matters either. day in and day out, still dancing with him and practicing instead of playing games in the main house. what a summer vacation.

Harvest, interpreted by the Elise Dufour Dancers. Photo by Dickson. From : Shadowland, Nov. 1922

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lightning fried our satellite dish and now we are alone

I'm never forgetting the Palestinian babies that were left to starve to death then rot in their beds by the IOF.

I'm never forgetting the Palestinian doctors surrounded by bodies of dead children begging the world to stop the slaughter.

I'm never forgetting the Palestinian children who held a press conference in English to beg the world to stop murdering them because they want to live.

I'm never forgetting the Palestinian Priest who said "We will not accept your apology after the genocide" to the world.

I'm never forgetting the Palestinian Imam who used the speakers of the Mosque, not to call people to prayer but to call out to God while the world around them was burning from American supplied Israeli bombs.

I'm never forgetting the grandfather who held his dead grandchild in his arms. Or the father carrying the remains of his two children in plastic shopping bags. Or the mother holding her dead child in a shroud. Or the father sitting among the rubble after he lost his whole family. Or the girl trapped under a broken building begging for people to save her family first. Or the boy who cried when he saw his brother alive. Or the girl who asked if she was still alive after being pulled from the rubble. Or the boy who carried the remains of his brother in his backpack. Or the old man the IOF used for a photoshoot before they shot him dead after getting pictures. Or the little boy wearing plastic gloves to pick up the remains of his family. Or the graves desecrated. Or the body of that small baby girl left alone in a tent because no one knew who she was or if her family was alive, small and alone and not one person who knew her name to bury her. Or the young boy who was shot in the street while his sister watched from the window. Or the men and boys who were stripped naked in winter. Or those tortured. Or those made to stand in open graves. Or the people who were raped by IOF soldiers. Or Palestinian workers kidnapped by the IOF and then labeled with wristbands, each one reduced to a number, then made to walk back to Gaza to be killed in the world's largest open air concentration camp. Or the people of Gaza starving because Israeli Zionists are blocking aid trucks. Or the Israelis dancing and celebrating the death of Palestinians. Or the lies spread by Zionists and their supporters. Or the people profiting off the oppression and deaths of Palestinians. Or the people of the West Bank being killed or kidnapped by the IOF. Or old woman who was older than the creation of the terror state of "Israel" who was shot by snipers for saying that. Or the Israelis dressed up as Palestinians to enter a hospital and kill three Palestinians in their beds. Or every single Palestinian currently kept in an Israeli prison. Or the journalists, doctors, poets, men, women, children, and the unborn all massacred. Or the fact that WCNSF exists now. Or the woman who refused to wash the blood from her hands. Or the dead, unburied and unmourned.

I'm never forgetting those who chose silence in the face of a genocide.

I may not know all their names but I will not forget the over 30,000 Palestinians dead. Or the over 60, 000 people hurt. Or the unknown number of people missing, still lost under the rubble. Or the 12,000 children slaughtered. An entire generation crippled or murdered.

I will never forget these things when Palestine is free.

❛ Let's beginnnnn ~ ❜