Newest Issue Of First Years Fashion Just Dropped

the monster's gone, he's on the run and your daddy's here...

(I get so emotional about dadjo plss I will go reread all fics)

see you again in the next life 👋 🐠

your MIND!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Gallery of violence

2024 art series representing acts of violence of Kenjaku, Gojo, Sukuna, Yuji and Mahito

_

there's also a reblog with my explanations of meanings I intended to depict!!

I miss the sky from before

But even back then

Though I used to see stars…

I’m sure there used to be more.

Noctalgia: "Sky Grief"

a feeling of sadness felt by some people because light pollution means they can no longer see a dark sky at night

to express sky grief for the accelerating loss of the home environment of our shared skies, a disappearance felt globally and deserving its own field of study of "nyctology"

Sources: 1 2

RAHHHHH BEST BIRTHDAY!!!!

megumi babysitting ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ )

Brain Soup

I am a writer.

I swear.

I promise myself: I am a writer!

But my words are stuck.

I don’t think in monologue.

I think in abstract ideas without real words.

I think in colours.

Synesthesia and neurodivergence on paper hints at delicately built structures supporting the colours that move like swirling, shimmering mist inside my brain.

No.

Never have I just one isolated, traceable thought — against my will, every one flutters by on erratic wings, overwhelmed by so many others. Could you keep your eye trained on a single monarch butterfly in a migrating swarm?

My thoughts are strobe lights — echoing, pounding, deep vibrations that reverberate off the walls of my skull in primary colours.

They float like soft, hazy clouds that wistfully blur the sky with creamy lavender, glittering magenta, electric peach, and yearning forget-me-not blue. So full of stories, beckoning me to tell them. My earnest hand strains its tendons, returning with nothing to show for the desperation with which I extended my reach.

They pool at the top of a dark room, iron shades of smoke billowing out of my ears, daring me to latch onto them with a foolish grip. The cloud mocks me from above, choking me with my own sheer volume of intangibility.

I know so badly what I want to say. What I need to say. What I have to say or else I might die.

But none of the words to say it.

My thoughts are a glossy, sticky honey — a glistening liquid with flecks of sunlight, flowing leisurely towards the small opening of its glass container. They are an infuriating, sluggish tar — a languid sludge rolling across the backroads carved into my brain.

Syrup or grease, they ooze with unrivalled lethargy, clogging the channels in which they travel before ever becoming.

But I am a writer, I promise myself.

I am.

I swear.

———————

lightbluefog

𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐚 𝐛𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐈 𝐬𝐚𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮…

𝐌𝐞𝐠𝐮𝐦𝐢.

Imagine when they animate THIS

THE IT COUPLE