Futuristic ＯＵＲＯＢＯＲＯＳ.

[cavitea]

"The cigarettes are burnt and here you are, clinging to paper like it'll provide your salvation."

JUNO.

— 𝙀𝙉𝙏𝙀𝙍 𝙁𝙍𝙊𝙈 𝙎𝙏𝘼𝙂𝙀 𝙇𝙀𝙁𝙏.

Their maw opened, glistening white soldiers reaching for the streaming light of day and fluorescent eidolon. Smoke trailed around their face like a peekaboo mask of a widow, a trailing line that made the nesting process of dear Tasya's kitchen all the more worthwhile. Legs spread themselves along the tile, dancing in a waltz as fingers picked along a phone, the erratic messages sent to an impoverished man that no doubt had pulled off to some ditch to pick their ashes out of his heart.

Ada came first in their show, a heron stepping with the grace of legs but ever-growing fear in her eyes. She was a chick, a bird, a little tiny egg left coddled in a nest and so easily honed in on by paint water eyes. "Ada, darling. You look dreadful." The smile accompanying the words didn't falter as Juno so readily closed the space between themselves and the Architect, darting fingers moving to run along the chunky gold that decorated a bird's neck. "Your sister, how is she?" An index finger slid under the necklace, the wavering smile pulled into a look of veiled disappointment before they stepped back again.

The exhale of smoke between them gave a magician's screen to the pose Juno popped their hips into, appraising the female as well as a statue posed in the dusty corner of museum archives. A shuffle here, a slight there and something seemed to settle itself as 'acceptable' to them.

"Really, you do need to call more often, I haven't seen you on a job since —"

"Junebug?!"

More bodies entered the stage, standing in the crescendo that beckoned pointed hands and the dramatic calls that 'she was pregnant with my child' or something of the sort. Juno's whole body broke and reformed, sharpened eyes fading their focus as heeled boots drug black marks against the ground and flung obnoxious arms in a cage around the chemist that called. "Oh my bug! My muse!" Fingers pulled out the lolling stick resting on their lip, reaching in a rested pose on the other to quickly swap out the two smoker's choice of poison. An eye batted itself shut in a wink at the theft, fingers moving to settle on a cheek in the way wives bid away soldiers to war.

"We were just talking about you, I swear. All good things, my Yanan, all good things." Christmas cards made themselves familiar between the two, eyes roaming the taller chemist as a blind man just given back his sight. He had aged from the last time their orbiting selves flung into the same gravity, salted strands more prominent against a pepper backdrop. Wrinkles were beginning to form and they pulled at them with a fondness, a child smearing around its Play-Doh. A look back towards Ada prompted a grin from Juno, a smile that wove a bridge and saw them standing on the railing, threatening to jump.

"Ada here was just telling me everything, all the time, right now. It's a fascinating story really, I'm sure you'll want to listen."

They didn't relinquish him easily, eyes flicked from chemist to stranger and back again, curiosity only peaking. "You've outdone yourself, my dear. Come to Berlin after this all and I'll paint you directly on my walls. I insist." They were at least truthful in that, the lounging hang onto Yanan's shoulders finally released in time for a final body to make it's arrival and slam drugs along with the French Horn and violin solos.

Oliver, a tragedy as much as a tryst.

Not between themselves but with life he was a terrible, awful, wonderful love. "You're not dead and for that I think the universe has gifted me." They giggled in a sense, full as a lecher in a brothel at the attention given by ghosts of looks, morning basks on the steps of a studio, cornered darkness sniggering at the fallacies of the world. Arms outstretched towards the ceiling, fingers cracking as they took a step to the center and spun a head in the glee of it all. "All of you are working here, yes? Oh, what a delight. We must all talk, drink, stare at the stars." They reached to swipe a hand along Oliver's brightly patterned shirt, a coy gesture accompanied by a smile.

"Breakfast, anyone?"

role | the forger.

scroll

location | a rat in the kitchen

outfit | x

tags | oliver, yanan, angelo, ada

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

fausto nobrega.

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  interactions

  
  
  
  

  Angelo ( iridescent. ), mentions Juno ( cavitea ), Yanan ( mangomilk ), Ada
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

The night had held within its hands a multitide of twists and turns with the ultimate result being a sleepless night, something that he did not quite enjoy, the exhaustion scratching at the door to memory. His nights were never sleepless— perhaps shortened, but never completely saddled with consciousness in the way so many of his other compatriots seemed to be. As such, there was a newness to this sensation, to the weight on his eyelids that would not lift, the tension that spread from his jaw down to his chest.

There was no use in rumination— what was done was done (and evidenced in reds and purples, a matching set between him and the older man, the realization of a bad habit arriving in the infuriating package of far-too-bright colors and even louder patterns making him almost shudder). It had been a night of fracturing and shattering, of the past snuffling at his heels only to sink its teeth into his ankles as a painful, bitter reminder that there was no use for it. Recall was molded into instinct and thus discarded once it had been formed into something useful.

It was time, therefore, to dress and face the day, to count down the hours until he would be induced into slumber and hurdled into a psyche that he could only assume had been shattered. The implications were beginning to build on one another, a thread that was beginning to weave itself into a tapestry that painted an unfortunate picture— there was something deeply wrong with Timofey. Whether or not he was still in there was a question that lingered now in his mind, twisted in the inquiries asked by the thing called Delphine (and another suppressed shudder stretched through him at the thought of the forger, her form having crawled under his skin since the first time she took his face), the wonderment of whether or not this could even work.

Though what did it matter, whether or not he thought it would work? What did it matter, his ruminations on if there would be corpses left behind, beings bound to sleep forever and ever and ever as a new entity slipped into skin to wander about in reality? He would forge forward, bound to the rock called duty, chained by the remembrance of what was not.

Fausto made himself presentable, though there was a flickering thought of exposing enough flesh to dash such a thought away, but no— Oliver would pitch a fucking fit in subtle, side-long glances and curled lips. The door swung open to reveal him as he always was, evidence of emotional almost-homecomings and a christening or disrespecting of Tasya’s office space (depending on how one looked at it) leaving no marks on his form.

The first thing he noticed was voices. Two he had not heard the previous day— two that he did not want to fucking hear at this moment but were accousting him anyways. Bitterness in two shades, both intolerable in their own ways but needing to be stomached. As such, the visage was created of a man that had slept the previous night, one that had an easy-going smile on his face, a lax gait that meandered towards the morning’s activity in a new locale, a new kitchen in fact— thank fuck, really.

A tail-end of an exchange was received, in the voice of Ada,

“Oh,”

a bit high-pitched, a bit tight. Caught off-guard, as she frequently was— Really? Really Tasya, this is what you have scavenged?

“Well, timezones have never sat well with me,”

easy excuse that Fausto rolled his eyes at, counting the half-seconds of a pause a touch too long,

“She is doing well, thank you for asking,”

downturned and defeated, treaded on in the bright start of the day.

As always, an entrance;

“I’ll take breakfast if you’re offering,”

Fausto announced to the crowd, eyes scanning over the pinched expression of Ada, bouncing off of Juno, tracing around Yanan to land on a fourth figure he did not recognize.

“Hello,”

he declared, syrup smooth and sweet, feet turning to the mystery that he could not place quite yet.

“May I ask that you give me the honor of your name?”

why'd you only call me when you're high?

artic monkeys

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Steve Jobs]

Oliver Brazzos

• aaaaaa
• aaaa

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  incoming message!

  
  
  

  
  

  Mood Hungry, but energized
  
  Location The kitchen
  
  
  
  tag

  
  

  cavitea (Juno), mangomilk (Yanan), FloatingAroundSpace (Fausto, Ada), iridescent. (Angelo)
  
  
  
  outfit

  
  
  
  

"And you! You haven't changed a bit," Oliver remarked with a smile as Juno danced their way over to him.

They were a waft of freshly sprayed paint. They were the first sip of beer after a long day. They were the wayward moon leading him to the next thrill. He may have been romanticizing the handful of experiences they had together, but genuine friendships were hard to come by. He could recall the nights of yore, giggling over new money pricks who pretended to know what "true" art was. A banana duct taped to a wall? A photograph of a woman splattered in blood? Or was it a painting that shredded itself upon purchase? He held back at nostalgic chuckle, choosing instead to bask in their impeccable sense of fashion. He couldn't tell if their ensemble was a coincidence or if they'd been tipped off to his presence, but damn if they didn't have a talent for being the yang to his flamboyant yin.

He took Juno's hand with his own, planting a kiss before letting go. In the corner of his eye he could see Fausto entering handsome as ever, bruise not included. He could feel his own mark itching against his shoulder, a sign of a good time with some mild consequences. He'd been prescient enough to request that the other man not leave it in a visible location because as thrilling as the idea of being marked sounded, he wanted to maintain a modicum of professionalism.

Someone had to around here.

"I tell you what. If someone wants to dig through the fridge, I'll get a pot of coffee started." Oliver announced as he approached the pantry.

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[a z u l a]

ziva chan

the forger

the kitchen

disgust

another day

interactions

fausto FloatingAroundSpace , oliver Steve Jobs , everyone in the kitchen

The night had ended with a bang, as most nights with this many once lovers usually did. The sour mood had been quite entertaining, a tidal wave of complicated emotions and tainted memories dragging her co-workers to drown in their own misery, a delightful display of human emotion that the Forger enjoyed watching more than any opera. This did, however, make their mission more complicated.

It seemed that the likelihood of their success decreased each day, skill offset by overwhelming feelings and hesitations, split second decisions that would mean the difference between a completed mission or purgatory. If the team didn't get their shit together by tomorrow, they might as well consider that 4 million dollars another one of their lovers slipped through outstretched fingers. Ziva couldn't let that happen, but teamwork was almost as unfamiliar to her as the pitiful human emotions she cared not to have.

She had hoped to climb under the too cool covers and drift off into restful slumber, instead finding nothing but aimless tossing and turning as the moon slipped lower. Uneasy hands ached for the feel of a bamboo brush beneath them, huffing with regret at not packing her favored paint set and having to settle for a pencil and paper in their stead. It was not as easy to get lost in shades of grey as it was to immerse herself in vibrant brushstrokes, less escapism and more concentration. Each form she found herself shaping turned into a memory, some she'd rather not remember and others she'd forgotten she'd had. No memory was truly her own, all tainted by another person or emotions she fought not to have.

Sleep only found her as the moon sunk towards the lowest part of its descent, the sheets crumpled like the scraps of paper tossed across the floor. Morning came with barely an entrance, the sky still lingering closer to midnight than mid-day in shades or grey-blue. Still, the day's activities beckoned the Forger from her temporary bed, one in a lifetime of nonpermanent places.

At least this one did not come with a bedmate, only the rest of the house did. The need for coffee outweighed her desire to avoid the busy area, it would certainly offer entertainment if last night still lingered in the air. Fausto stood just within the doorway, eyes too focused on Oliver to notice her until she was closing in.

"Coffee sounds great, but it's a bit crowded in here. Though Fausto must be used to it by now with the revolving door in his bedroom." Her eyes crinkled with a smile at the Pragmatist as she leaned against the opposing counter, beside an unfamiliar face who'd arrived this morning. The look of agonized disdain that Fauso failed to hide clued her in on what may have occurred after her accosting last night, the tasteless fashionista had been approaching Fausto with a bit more than concern as she'd scolded him for his altercation with Willie last night.

"You need better taste." Ziva scrunched up her nose at Oliver, horrified of his terrible taste in men and fashion. It was truly a crime against humanity, she'd rather spend eternity in purgatory than dressed in one of Oliver's atrocities.

coded by natasha.

 

[mangomilk]

yananovic borgov

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  wifebeater, loosened tracksuit
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  Angelo, Juno, Ada, Oliver, Ziva, Open iridescent. FloatingAroundSpace cavitea Steve Jobs a z u l a
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

"Oh my bug!"

Brown bugs crawling over dry soil, cracked in the ugliest mosaic of nature which implied penury of vivid moisture. Grey pill bugs forming a ball he wanted to kick, kick, the ball opening, exposed belly. "My muse." Ah, yes. He used to be theirs, still was? A body frozen by frames of walls and canvases, by time. Arms tanned by age (and also the sun) enveloped him in a tight seal and Yanan clasping awkward hands around this torso, left a light smile on his lips as he lifted Juno up and twirled them over marbled kitchen tiles. Pearls of laughter beaded in toxic sparkles; chemist and junebug dusted in old Hollywood glamor. The thievery of his smoke didn’t last long as Juno placed their own between Yanan’s lips and he took a drag. "Mhm, still into these?" Fumes escaped two mouths dusted in their own craze and haze; delirium.

Tugs of war on his face, (Yanan pretends he does not house any wrinkles in his home) were left uncommented but were returned with a gentle swoosh over Juno’s mane. He could swear their voice had changed among other things he couldn’t find just yet. Merry X-Mas greetings still lingered on his fridge like drawings of his children if he had any. "How I miss Berlin Berlin," he found himself very funny. "I can postpone a few projects... I haven’t had a vacation in years," he admitted but also wanted to appear just as busy as he was. New and old shadows and lights buzzed into the kitchen, a busy field of flowers and honey already sat on the table. "Oliver! You look like your eyes didn’t catch a lot of sleep. It might just be your wrinkles dragging if I think about it..," he teased. Something about the man he found very strange. It wasn’t his colorful clothing but laid hidden in the core of an Angel’s Trumpet; upside down. A past mission of good experiences, the false feeling of connection to be left at the crossing. No hard feelings though!! Hah-hah.Hah.

With Juno offering breakfast, he agreed with a strong nod. "I’m with Fausto on this one. I may not be of much help I’m afraid... Is American Pancakes an option? I am honest, UK food is an atrocious act." As Fausto’s eyes moved to Angelo and towered over him with that poisonous ease, Yanan’s hand slipped on Angelo’s shoulder, tapped it with little pressure, almost nonexistent. His chest broadened, only dared to let so many things slip from the tip of his nose and his side eyeing glance on the two men. Careful with that one, the tempter like oil on canvas. Samson and Delilah? No. Not quite. Why? There was no hair to be cut just yet.

He was surprised at how many faces he recognized, how many hands he had shaken and how many had shaken his own. "Astounding," he said to himself but the words were spoken in Ziva’s face by accident. Her comments targeting Fausto – knives slashing apples on a person’s head – made him light up and press his lips together. “Ooooh,” he shook his head with disbelief. "What poetry exudes from your mouth. I don’t think we’ve formally met," Yanan nodded towards Ziva before he took another drag of his cigarette. "Yanan," he declared and stretched out a hand.

seoul

Jaysen

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[myl]

béatrice & willie.

❝ if you breathe, do it quietly. ❞

mood

hopeful.

outfit

x.

location

outside, morning.

interactions

Béatrice cavitea

Dogs had become the symbol of her life.

Every step taken in trepidation and repentance was followed by padding feet and the lolling mouths of fangs and hunger. The smell of animals clung to her shadows and painted themselves in the scars on her hand, seeping into open seams of skin. Dogs clung to her, in ways more than the two Dobermans at her side.

The click of nails echoed along the shuffled remnants of what one was Béatrice Lavigne-Monet, a whispering wisp of herself after the events of late night kitchens and the interruption that brought back a sense of reality she wished desperately to ignore.

It wasn’t him, not in the way she wished it was. What once smelled of lavender and the comfort of afternoon sun now reeked in vitriol and excuses. Questions could linger as much as they wanted and it still wouldn’t bring relief to the ache of limbs that beat down on her own heart in female hysteria. Stiffened shoulders brought only a veil over the injury, a ghastly visage passing through corridors and hallways until the bite of morning chill reminded her of the way she was dreadfully still alive.

Three days had nearly passed since she last slept and all she could do was sigh.

══════════════════​

If the bump on his head was the nail, compulsion to rise with the sun was the hammer that drove it into Willie’s parietal lobe. He lolled out of bed, and when his feet hit the floor, he was in an ancient time and place. When Béatrice was in town, he and Silke would walk the dogs with her. It seemed he must be able to catch the scents of his home. His home before he had sown the weeds he believed would grow into salvation. You’re a damn fool, Will. He clicked his tongue at whose voice his mind produced

As he descended through the manor, voices in the kitchen had him about-faced and briskly strode toward a rear exit. The curated browns and greys of the estate’s interior gave way to verdant greenery: rolling hills broken by a copse of mighty sycamore trunks and the cobblestone path winding between them. Occasionally, when the sun managed to break through the omnipresent threat of rainfall, Willie found himself taking respite in the shade. Cold morning dew and breeze alike made that seem foolhardy, now. He wiped down a bench along the path and rested in the sunlight, eyes closed, thoughts drifted ever towards the life he desperately wished could be reclaimed.

————— ୨୧ —————​

Béa had walked in a formless path along the canines, reaching hands only to brush against sleek black fur with more a need for stability than a love for the animals. Wobbles plagued her steps, the shine of morning sun more a guiding star towards lucidity than one that provided warmth on a face devoid of it. She missed the comforts of a home curated towards herself, a silence broken only by gentle requests for tea and the growling laughs of the large animals she had taken under her care.

Brown eyes and the lack of painful memories that came with looking into them.

Bounding steps from the animals beside her gave pause to the slippery slope of thoughts, a hum watching as the animals crunched the ground below them in a well deserved frolic after their protection of the ice-covered woman that had seen too much. What was the look she had given her? Teeth bit at chapping lips and stopped the peeling of skin in time to watch an equally puzzling remain of the night slumped on a bench, face pointed to the sky.

Syrup to where the other is spice. She allowed the gentle thought to roll in bitter waves down her skin, hands tugging along the heavy coat pulled around her as quiet steps took her before the living confusion, grey eyes peering invasively down at the private moment as he had into hers. “You look dreadful, William.” Sighs pitter pattered their way through her speech, a hand moving to rest along her own cheek as a mother staring pitifully down at an injured child. “I suppose your head still hurts, yes?”

Where she should have held concern was more indifference, her actions spelling the only care she could afford the other as the same hand moved fluidly down to press along a forehead, recoiling at the warmth that breathed life. His cheeks were the shade of peonies planted too early and left to die, a life lived well enough under the sun and stark against the way she sunk back into milk and curdled.

“You’re obscene.”

Funeral cloths swished and bundled themselves in a pile on the bench, shoulders knocking themselves together as Béa closed the space and looked pointedly outwards to the dogs that continued pressing their noses to the ground. “I suppose I am too.”

══════════════════​

The pleasantness of sunlit greenery, a warm, albeit shy, sun, and a cool breeze from somewhere frosty—recontextualized now to include the main actor in a whole book’s worth of history. “Good morning to you too.” He muttered, reluctant to accept the creeping grief-stricken memories that had already begun to sour his temperament. The comfort of being physically near Béa offset it, if only somewhat. Indecent or no, it was the honest truth. Willie did not know what that made him, but it was not pleasant.

Despite being so deeply entwined, they both had claims to a different lifelong lover that got them caught in a fire fueled by regret and misallocated yearning. Wildflowers with no recourse for the weed that brought a slow, agonizing end in due time. Only an attentive gardener could save them, now. “We fell in with the wrong crowd. Maybe things could be different if I…” His teeth clicked with the force he snapped them shut. Instead, he offered a gentle hand over her own. “It isn’t your fault. I instigated…everything.” Willie allowed his head to loll back, staring now into, perhaps, one of the last amazing blue skies he would ever see. Tasya had said this was a deadly mission. Maybe it was time to fully realize what that meant for him.

“Where will you go after? There’s a whole world out there, and you could be anywhere in the world three days from now.”

————— ୨୧ —————​

Béa squinted into the sun and realized it was merely the man beside her, a lazy god tormented by the choices made for him. They couldn’t dare to dwell on the past near each other, not with the way their hearts looked more like black holes than objects deserving of love.

“Home, I suppose. The dogs are waiting for me, after all.” She scuffed a heel along the February ground and allowed the binding of fingers to forgive her of the sins she hadn’t repented for. “Perhaps I’ll have a pool dug in the back with this money, and plant trees and flowers around it. My lavender needs somewhere to grow.” Scars scuffed themselves against calloused memories and she felt the guilt of someone that wished briefly for someone else.

“I forgive you, none of us are without sin.” A free hand held itself outwards at a dog that stepped closer and sniffed. “It is Eve that fell for the serpent and let him trick her, after all.”

══════════════════​

Willie sniffed pointedly. “That’s a benevolent interpretation. Betraying your creator and companion through selfishness, all for nothing…” Silence dragged for a long moment before he muttered: “And I’m no different.”

Almost guiltily, he tried to prop up the declining mood. No point in both of them being miserable. “Home sounds lovely. Poppies might be nice to break up the green tide. They ought to be blooming soon.” Willie ran a finger along the iron-wrought armrest, drawing the dew to coalesce into fat droplets that ran down into the soil, dispersed forever until fate determined it should not be so.

————— ୨୧ —————​

“I suppose gardening is a hobby best done in pairs, don’t you think?” She ignored the prior statements as much as the decorum of asking for companionship. A breeze knocked itself along bleached curls towards roots that began to show the first of many lies. “There will always be room for vacationers,” a pause, “And their mildly obese cats.” Where it didn’t belong a smile grew in a gentle curl, grey flicking over to tan skin before the drink of melanin satiated her.

══════════════════

One blink, then two more to clear the uncertainty. “Buttons Jr. hasn’t been the same without some plants to gnaw on. I’ll clear his schedule.” Willie sat on his hand before it could cause grief, and offered a smile equal parts earnest and ambivalent. Ich bin unter aller Würde. He’d received twice the shrift ever deserved from the women still in his life, and torn through it twice in less than a day.

————— ୨୧ —————
​

“He’s the guest of honor, after all.” What moment was shared between them seemed fading as dew on grass, the heat of sun baking away the hours of hope and longing in time for a hand to squeeze at another. “Visit me before the end of night, Will; I’d like to check on your head before tomorrow.”

She seemed to take this enough as a farewell, a hand leaving its hold on the other before she brushed imaginary dirt from modest clothing and whistled at the hounds. Steps on crunching ground took away the shared space as quickly as it had formed, the trailing blackness of a weakened body tottering back towards the house that was proving as much a prison as it was a home.

/* ------ credit -- do not remove ------ */

© weldherwings.

 

[FloatingAroundSpace]

fausto nobrega.

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  interactions

  
  
  
  

  Ziva ( a z u l a ), Yanan ( mangomilk ), mentions Oliver ( Steve Jobs )
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

Indeed, the capacity of the kitchen to handle all the sorts of personalities it was swelling with was reaching a critical mass— an architect dressed to impress and falling short of the mark, a pair of forgers that were looking for soft spots to dig nails into flesh, a recent tryst that was labeled the extractor in all his morning glory (none of it visible, however hard he had tried), at least one chemist that might have soured on him (though not fermented— there was a blip here and there, a potential not so long-lost), and another figure that he did not know in the slightest. There were remarks being offered— about Fausto, of course, the most intelligent minds of the dreamscape managing to cobble together the knowledge that dalliances were always open with him and that something had gone down the previous night to come up with the easiest, simplest solution.

He had no intent of taking it lying down, however, and he sauntered forward, hands dipping into pockets so that Ziva didn’t have an opportunity to twist her nails into his flesh, pausing his feet and permitting his upper half to lean closer to her, gleaming teeth sharpened with a remark,

“From what I recall, you both have the same taste. Matter of fact,”

his eyes flickered over to Ada for a moment, watching the architect jut her chin out in a show of defiance that only underlied her unsteadiness,

“I’d say I’m just about everyone’s taste around here.”

A half-disgusted scoff was offered from Ada, easily ignored as he now turned his focus onto a new potential— or an old one, depending on the angle it was examined at. The expression he offered Yanan was a bit lighter, a bit more open in the sense that the corners of his mouth were rounded, in that his eyes seemed to shift to capture the light from overhead.

“This one is Ziva,”

he said, voice dismissive and quick as he spun on his heel and made his way towards the pantries, flinging them open to see if there was the potential for the requested pancakes to manifest.

“Forger. Sharp,”

he said, voice almost cheerful.

“Don’t worry, though,”

he added in an amused tone,

“she’s more a scratcher than a biter.”

Moving swiftly across the room, knowing that if he did not that Ziva might pick up a knife and send it straight for his head, mission be damned, he found the pantry with ingredients that looked fresh, newly bought. A thought circled in his head, the idea that everything had just recently been well-stocked— for the purposes of the personalities filling the room, rather than a typical run. There was an implication there, a stray wonder of how empty the house had been, in what form had that emptiness taken, was it next to loneliness?

It was dismissed in a moment, more pressing matters at hand as he started to portion out flour, sugar, baking soda—

“Yanan, I do happen to remember that you were capable of stirring at one point or another. I promise whisking is not much different, though I am always more than happy to teach you.”

why'd you only call me when you're high?

artic monkeys

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