The poison. The poison for Joffrey, the poison specifically chosen to kill Joffrey, Joffrey’s poison. That poison.
Falling in love isn’t like falling off a cliff. It’s a gradual fall into a soft, welcoming bed of white linens on a Sunday morning. The sun is streaming through the windows making angular patterns on the comforter that a cat could envy, and the smell of toast and rain-sodden clothes lingers from the night before. She’s in the kitchen scraping off plates and burning the toast like she always has, emanating soft curses that float into the bedroom and your ears. As you lay there in the warmth of the bright yellow plaid across your calf with your face half in the pillow, blinking stupidly, you smell the burnt toast and hear the curses and remember the soggy evening you had together and think, “I love this woman.” You have, you do, and you will. You’ve been falling and falling ever since you met, and you will continue falling until the day your eyes move from the sunglight to the darkness.
*prints this tweet, rolls a cigarette with it, and puts it between my teeth without lighting it*
Do you ever have a problem where you just don’t know how to reply to an argument, not because you don’t know the answer, but you just don’t know where to begin? Like, the foundation of knowledge you’d need to impart to this person before you could even begin to drag them out of their sinkhole of ignorance would cost thousands of dollars if it were coming from a university?