this isn't the end
i'm lizzy. 18, asexual, usa, semi-hiatus. +
this is love, this is war, it's insanity


criticize moffat all you want

criticize the doctors all you want

criticize the companions all you want

but criticize murray gold and i will find you and beat you over the head with a cello

shoutout to those people who follow me even though i don’t follow them bc i am a stinky little asexual who can’t handle their fabulous sex positivity blogs even with the help of tumblr savior i love you



how the hell do i talk to people

Stand in front of them and press A

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?


W.B. Yeats, “The Second Coming.”

I find myself thinking about Yeats’ “rough beast” a lot of late. Yeats thought a shared apocalypse was nigh. But it seems to the beast comes for us one at a time.

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