*goes to england*
me: excuse me, what time is it?
brit: time wots that m8?
*big ben chimes*
everyone starts to count the bongs on their fingers*
brit: OI IT’S 7 BONG
if i had a dime for everytime an adult man made me feel uncomfortable
Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.
She had rooms in her mind that she would not look into.
― Wallace Stegner, Angle of Repose (via misswallflower)