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"Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all."
- Emily Dickinson (via feellng)

My nose twitches. It’s the smell. Cloying and artificial. A dab of white peeks out of a vase of dried flowers on my dresser. I approach it with cautious steps. There, all but obscured by its preserved cousins, is a fresh white rose. Perfect. Down to the last thorn and silken petal.

And I know immediately who’s sent it to me.

President Snow.

me: hello darkness my old friend
darkness: do i know u

finjigoga:

Ivan Aivazovsky (1817-1900),
“The Black Sea at night”, 1879.

shakeitoffs:

taylor what were you thinking in this moment