Le Gouffre, 2014 Directed By Carl Beauchemin, Thomas Chrétien, And David Forest

어젠가..모바일로 올리다가 장렬히 실패하여 다시 올려보는.

reblog and make a wish! this was removed from tumbrl due to “violating one or more of Tumblr’s Community Guidelines”, but since my wish came true the first time, I’m putting it back. :)

petition for Sherlock to start turning up to crime scenes like this

BULLET JOURNALING 

Watch the original video here ( x ) Before I saw this video, I always kept a book for my homework. I use grid paper and it’s perfect for BJ… Heh. After watching this, it helped me to start developing a system I’m currently satisfied with. 

To-do apps don’t work with me. It always just sits on my screen with a notification and swiping something doesn’t feel as satisfying as crossing it out victoriously with a pen. ^_^

LEGENDS ( you can also do it like this ) Helps you quickly figure out what certain tasks are at a glance. The colours are for my spiraldexes which I will not be discussing unless you guys request it. c:

Pages This is basically what my pages look like. I write the numbers at the lower corners.I also added sticky notes for extra stuff like memorizing my moral definitions. :p

Calendar  ( x ) If you watch the video, you’re supposed to list out the dates but I prefer both, so I draw a calendar and paste it in my book and list out all the really appointments/stuff I have to do in my drawn calendar and some not-important-but-still-worth-noting notes in my list-calendar.

Index Just write down the pages as shown in the video. Pretty simple. 

Other things you can include: I also stick some motivational images on the last page and stuff like that. Spiraldexes can be fun but they tend to be a little time consuming to draw or at least, I can seem to use them effectively. :c

Have pages especially for grocery lists/ grades/ etc. 

Page full of favourite recipes

Stick an envelope at the back cover and fill it with motivational inspiration!

Stick printables ( x ) ( x ) ( x ) ( x )

Start a goal/wishlist!

 Good luck! :* 

ships without lanterns are lost to the sea

Dean’s been awake for a while when Sam’s labored breathing and thrashing limbs finally pull him from the nightmare they both know he’s having. For a moment, all he can hear is Sam’s pointed gasping directed at the ceiling. In this dark, anything could be there and they wouldn’t be able to tell. Dean likes it that way. He thinks Sam does too.

“Do you think she loved me?” Sam asks breathlessly.

Dean thinks of that week away from Stanford, with Sam in the passenger’s seat again, murmuring mindlessly along to Aerosmith. How he woke earlier than Dean and turned on all the lights while padding around the room, going through a half-awake routine of brushing his teeth and pulling clothes on. The way his eyes shone and the corners of his lips pulled up when he folded open his wallet to tip the diner waitress. That easy smile that Dean’s memory had almost forgotten, like a polaroid dulled and tattered at the edges, now back in vivid technicolor.

“Yeah,” he whispers back, voice hoarse from the tightness in his chest. It sounds rough in the quiet of morning, like someone's been rubbing sandpaper against his lungs. Like the words have been cutting up his throat where Dean's been holding them hostage. 

“How can you be so sure?” Sam’s voice comes back from across the divide, so empty and unknowing. As if he can’t fathom how someone could possibly love him, just little ol’ Sammy. Dean wants to reach across the space between them, thrust his thumb onto the pulse there, hold Sam’s hand until he just sees, but even he can’t span four years of running in opposite directions. The gap between their beds has never seemed wider, not even when Dean used to still order two queens knowing that the other would never be used.

In the safety of the darkness he wants to say some sentimental shit like ‘ you have mom’s eyes’ or ‘ kinda hard not to with that laugh.’ He bites his tongue until the pain is a sharp reminder in the dull, soundless room. He's been quiet too long. The blood is bitter behind his lips. It reminds him that Sam’s would taste exactly the same.

“You’re you,” is what he says instead, and immediately regrets it, knows he said too much. The words were sharp in this paper-thin silence, slicing it open until all Dean can taste is blood, blood, blood. Sam stays quiet on the other bed, on the other side of the world from him. Dean can still hear his breathing, and knows he’s not asleep.

The language of flowers

Picnic by KamiDiox

“I wanted a perfect ending. Now I’ve learned, the hard way, that some poems don’t rhyme, and some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what’s going to happen next. Delicious Ambiguity.” ― Gilda Radner

An old and homely grandmother accidentally summons a demon. She mistakes him for her gothic-phase teenage grandson and takes care of him. The demon decides to stay at his new home.

Sam stands on his tiptoes until you lift him up, his arms tight around your shoulders.

7/? Favourite Supernatural Tumblr Posts