He calls you Bucky.
3k words of something that might be identity negotiation. Or not. Or something in between.
Dreamt I stood in a china shop so crowded from floor to far-off ceiling with shelves of porcelain antiquities etc. that moving a muscle would cause several to fall and smash to bits. Exactly what happened, but instead of a crashing noise, an august chord rang out, half-cello, half-celeste, D major (?), held for four beats. My wrist knocked a Ming vase affair off its pedestal— E-flat, whole string section, glorious, transcendent, angels wept. Deliberately now, smashed a figurine of an ox for the next note, then a milk-maid, then Saturday’s Child— orgy of shrapnel filled the air, divine harmonies in my head. Ah, such music! Glimpsed my father totting up the smashed items’ value, nib flashing, but had to keep the music coming. Knew I’d become the greatest composer of the century if I could only make this music mine. A monstrous Laughing Cavalier flung against the wall set off a thumping battery of percussion.
I’m a soldier. I volunteered. I’m not walking away.
"They’d find us in a week
When the cattle show fear
After the insects have made their claim
After the foxes have known our taste
I’d be home with you
I’d be home with you”
Art for the contest the singer Hozier is putting on, inspired by the lyrics above.
In The Flesh meme
∟ [1/1] one character → Amy Dyer
What is every living person afraid of? […] Death. The Big Sleep. Deep down, fearing the reaper is the reason why everyone’s so messed up in the head. They know the end is nigh, but there’s nothing they can do about it, so it drives them nuts and they live their lives with one eye on the clock. We don’t have to do that. We can smash the clock to pieces.