❝ Never trust a survivor,” my father used to warn me, “until you find out what he did to stay alive. ❞
Kurt Vonnegut, Bluebeard (via brivid)


the third boy was the most exotic of the set. angular and elegant, he was precariously thin, with nervous hands and a shrewd albino face and a short, fiery mop of the reddest hair i had ever seen. i thought (erroneously) that he dressed like alfred douglas, or the comte de montesquiou: beautifully starchy shirts with french cuffs; magnificent neckties; a black greatcoat that billowed behind him as he walked and made him look like a cross between a student prince and jack the ripper.

 I am sure by now you all must be very confused… angry, frightened. I can only assure you that everything that’s happened to you… everything we’ve done to you… it was all done for a reason.


xi’an north railway station


my aesthetic: the kids in your high school french textbook from the early 90s

it was my fault. i’m a zombie, i rose from the grave, i went on a killing spree, i ate people’s brains. there’s no denying that.

"Are they changed because they want to go back to their old life, or is it because they’re so depressed at realizing their old life was no better than what we have now?" [insp