fourth day in a row where I woke up already crying from pain, what a great time to be alive
fourth day in a row where I woke up already crying from pain, what a great time to be alive
Best neuro physiotherapist in Langley - Divinecare physiotherapy
@victorywar | x
Cringing as Hellbat spoke out, Killerhornet couldn’t help as he flexed his wings, feeling phantom pain in sympathy for Hellbat.
“Drillhorn said I needed to train more, but I didn’t think Queenie would attack you while training.” Hornet held onto his weapon warily, his visor pushed upwards to stare at his foul-tempered breast animal.
Looming over the fallen Spy Master, Queenie buzzed furiously over Hellbat, but upon noticing Hornet’s stare, the bug flew a small distance away, clearly not sorry for denting Hellbat’s wing in the first place.
He heaved a sigh at Queenie’s behaviour, but really, she’s always been like it to most of the Breastforce. Deciding not to dwell on things, Hornet allowed his weapon to fall to the ground. He swiftly approached Hellbat, and soon knelt down beside the often-bullied jet when close enough to properly see the injury.
“Here, let me just... I can bend it back, If- if that’s okay? It’ll hurt for a moment, but I did... study some medical stuff. Back when-.” He stops, trying to force the memories back down. He wasn’t Stinger. Not anymore, yet, even after fifty years, his kindness still remains. His face contorts, flashing glimpses of pain as he tries to shove his forgotten heart back down. “...Just stop whining and stay still, dumbass.”
Despite Killerhornet’s goals when joining the Decepticons, he knew far too well that his kindness couldn’t be purged just from simply swapping sides. Hellbat, even with his infamous reputation among the breastforce for being ‘two-faced’, was the only one who caught the most glimpses of the Brain of Heart.
not anything in particular, but i hate the idea of "i don't use this accessibility tool and neither do my friends, so it's a bad idea to add"
like cool, congrats, but that doesn't mean it's a bad thing. if you don't use it, who fucking cares, just keep not using it.
and by this i mean specifically from people who are also disabled saying shit like that, or being like "i have the same disorder and that doesn't help me at all, in fact it hurts, so YOU shouldn't have access to it"
or the fun "why would they add this before (other accessibility tool)"
like, really? make them add both. also maybe one is easier to add than the other. theres a lot of fucking reasons, dont be pissy just because its not something you want to use, support it for the people it WILL help, AND fight for other tools you want
its not that fucking hard to not be a prick
Aheem heem wimper .
Honestly imagining the agony something like a shower or any facial care would be for AK Jon.
A quick thing before I go to bed - today’s actually the anniversary of Dream finding Spirit on the DreamSMP!! I thought I’d honor our favorite horse with a super quick ficlet, but it’s angst, bc you know. It’s this blog, you should know what to expect /lh
Tws: animal death, grief, implied torture/abuse, blood, injuries, pandora’s vault/prison arc
Dream blinks, slowly, at the new presence in the room.
It takes a moment for his vision to clear - still hazy from the bright glare of the lava and tears that had gathered within them from the pain, his vision wavering dangerously between bright, dizzying shapes of color to black and back again. There’s something new and pale across from him, stark against the darkness of the lava, and he keeps his eyes stubbornly on it as he waits for them to function again.
The shape slowly resolves into something actually recognizable, and Dream freezes, right hand twitching forward.
He shakes his head - it must be a hallucination, a product of his frazzled mind after so many hours of pain and torment, but the horse stays, head tossing towards him, dark eyes turned to stare into his own. And- there- he feels a thread of something deeper, something Beyond the cell and this world and the Nether and even the End, Tethering him to the image of a horse in front of him, a familiar string that he can almost wrap his hand around and pull and oh-
He feels himself smile despite himself, the cuts on his face stinging from the movement, and he drags himself forward towards the ghost of a horse sitting calmly on the other side of the cell. The movement is excruciating, leaves him sucking rattling breaths through his teeth as he crawls forward, inch by agonizing inch, but despite the screaming from his ribs and the painful shake to his lungs he drives himself forward.
Halfway across, Spirit bows their head, bending it down towards him, and they’re close enough to touch now, only inches away from his face. His hand stretches out almost of its own volition, hesitant, and he gasps as the tips of his fingers meet the soft, velvety surface of their nose.
Spirit doesn’t even flinch, letting him drag his bloodstained fingers over their face, nuzzling softly into his touch and blowing cold air into his palm. They’re cold - it shouldn’t surprise him, but it does. All of his memories of them had been warm, sun-stained, thick with the feeling of the wind’s fingers tangled in his hair and leaves and flowers bundled to his chest - there’s none of that, now, only the roaring fire of the lava at his side and the fire of the open wounds seared across his skin. He pulls himself forward, relishing the coolness of their presence - they’re cold, but this room has always been too hot, and the cold numbs his pain and settles into his burnt and blackened bones and it’s almost like comfort.
It takes another few minutes for him to drag himself by their side; he wraps his arms around their neck and collapses against the pale fur of their side, feeling its softness with calloused, scarred hands.
“Why are you here, bud?” He murmurs into their neck, feeling tears prick at his eyes, again, and telling himself it’s just from the pain. Spirit simply stares at him, dark eyes far too knowing; they’d never been one for staying in one place, matching his own restless wanderlust with their own, but they settle, here, movements slow as they let him simply breathe against the cool kindness of their body. His arms tighten fractionally around them, committing the slope of their neck, the sweep of their mane to memory; it’s been so long since he’s seen them, probably almost a year-
He looks up; Spirit looks back, their eyes drooping and kind. He reaches a shaking hand to their face, carding his fingers through their mane as a tired laugh bubbles up from his throat.
“It’s- it’s been a year, hasn’t it?” He shakes his head, pressing his face against their fur, “Since I first found you. That’s why you’re here.”
Spirit snorts, head shaking slightly as their nostrils flare. It’s as much as an agreement as he can get - his vision blurs, and he closes his eyes, a dull splash of heat building up in the front of his skull.
“It- it’s been a year, huh?” He murmurs, and Spirit whinnies, low, soft. “I-”
A dark night, Sapnap riding them through the trees, the forest, yet uncleared, overridden by mobs. A skeleton’s arrow, flying through the branches and sliding through their ribs; their pale, shaking body sprawled among the leaf litter, Dream sitting by their side and smoothing his hands through their mane until the sun came up.
An enderchest opened, a pale square of leather pulled from within it - the last remaining remnants of a horse he loved, a horse he lost. Himself, stook upon the obsidian walls, mocking words settling under his skint, his hand, tight around the handle of his axe, words screamed and spat from his lungs, barely audible over the blood rushing in his ears.
“I failed you,” his voice trembles, and he hates himself for how weak it is. Spirit bows their head forward, their chest moving up and down with deep, gentle breaths, even in death. The tears that had been gathering in his eyes finally fall, his battered face stinging from the salt, and he feels his shoulders shake with soft, shuddering sobs as he holds them close again after so, so long.
just got reminded this isnt common safety knowledge and i think its very very important so like ignoring how bad these pictures are and that im using a dvd player remote as my prop: heres how you should be cutting food to save yrself a LOT of pain
you always ALWAYS want to claw yr hand unless its some impossible angle yr slicing at, and hold the food like this:
nails down andd against your food, pressed it if necessary. your knife should never go higher than your nails, because thats what your knife will hit if you slice wrong. dont be afraid to flip the food around when necessary to keep your grip.
when cutting, its best not to use yr index finger to power yr slices (will wear on yr wrist badly), and to use a rocking/seesaw motion (keeps the knife low to avoid injuries).
sharp knives are your best friend, dull knives are harder to cut with and the injuries are worse because of the force youre using to cut. if a sharp knife isnt available, cut soft foods with serrated bread or steak knives, theyll grip the food. always point the tip away, and when walking around a kitchen, keep the tip facing the floor and give warning to anyone around that you have a sharp
as a general tip, especially with round produce, always aim to have a flat side of yr fruit/veggie/etc. this will help avoid slips, and youll have cleaner cuts than if you were trying to wrangle a round object :-)
most of all i want to stress that you do NOT have to cut fast to cut well. thats a skill that comes with time and earned confidence and your aim should not be to slice quickly, but safely and however you need your food cut. please do not try to be a cooking show host especially if youre inexperienced with cooking knives, thats a good way to hurt yourself, and the best cuts always come with patience
this is just brutal, but i hope having that time off from the playoffs will give the stars the necessary time to heal and come back even better next season
NFL Issues Memo Regarding Workout Injuries, Contracts After Ja’Wuan James Incident | Bleacher Report
Nic Antaya/Getty Images In light of Denver Broncos offensive tackle Ja’Wuan James suffering a torn Achilles during a workout away from the team facility, the NFL sent a memo to teams regarding the financial implications of such setbacks. Reporter Aaron Wilson shared the memo in which the league made clear teams are not “obligated to provide salary continuation during the year in which the injury…
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Seriously torn between who’s having a worse time tonight - stars fans and their incredibly close chance of being eliminated, or rangers fans having to worry about w*lson and, you know, everything, while fucking Pierre is being fucking Pierre
Iwaizumi flopped onto the duvets of Oikawa's bed, watching as the setter stuffed more clothes into his plain black suitcase. He had his hair pinned back with some of his cousin's old hairclips, some of them having little stars and UFO designs on them. Occasionally, a little strand of hair would fall in front of his face, and Oikawa would huff and tuck it behind his ear. After a couple of minutes, Oikawa sighed, leaning back on his heels and laying on the floor. "Iwa-chan, I'm tired."
"Well, that's too bad." Iwaizumi scoffed, nudging the latter with the heel of his foot. "You need to hurry up and pack, dumbass, so you can stay with me."
Oikawa pursed his lips and let out a small sigh. "Fine, fine." He pulled out the clips, letting his hair fall free and shaking his head a little, to loosen up the knots. Running a slim hand through it, he stood up and zipped his suitcase, letting it lean on the side of his bed. "C'mon Iwa-chan, get up." He extended out a hand to his friend, pulling Iwaizumi to his feet once he had a strong grip on it. "Jeez. You're such a brute, you could've held my hand softer you know?"
Iwaizumi rolled his eyes as Oikawa rubbed the palm of his hand. "Whatever, let's go."
The two of them padded out of Oikawa's room, but froze in the middle of the hallway. The front door knob was turning; it sounded like someone was trying to unlock the door or pick the lock. Oikawa turned to Iwaizumi nervously, panic lining his features. "Iwa-chan, what do we do?"
Iwaizumi stalked to the front door, grabbing an umbrella from the rack, planning to use it as a bat. "Just stay there. I'll take care of it," he whispered, getting into a baseball player stance.
The door swung open, and Iwaizumi swung the umbrella, but it didn't get very far. The person in question had caught the tip of it before it hit them, and ripped it out of Iwa's grip. "Iwaizumi-kun?"
Iwa opened his eyes, glancing at the so-called intruder. "O-Oikawa-san?" Oikawa's mother stood in front of the doorway, her arms filled with grocery bags. "Sorry, do you.. Do you need to come in?"
"Yes, that would be lovely." Iwaizumi stepped aside, nervously looking back at Oikawa, who just stood there in the middle of the hallway, like a deer in headlights. "Oh, Tooru. Welcome back."
Oikawa's fists clenched at his sides, and he blinked back the tears in his eyes. "I'm not staying long. I'm leaving."
"Oh, is that so?" Oikawa-san turned back to him after having set the groceries on the counter. "I wouldn't be surprised. You always abandon those who love you when they need you."
Iwaizumi's mouth slid open in shock. Is that how you're supposed to talk to your kid? He looked back at Oikawa, who was glaring daggers at his mother. "I don't abandon people. I've never abandoned anyone, ever." The setter's hands were shaking. It was taking a lot of Tooru's self control to not sock his mother directly in the face and bolt out the door. "I'm not like you."
Oikawa's mother raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah? When have I ever abandoned anyone?"
"When I was five years old. You left me and Hiro-chan alone for three days because you were at some stupid party with your co-workers." Oikawa clenched his fists even tighter, his face contorting into a sad smile. "We were children. We were starving for three days, mama."
"Okay? Well, you should've learned how to cook, then." Oikawa-san turned her back on her son, and started to unpack the food in the brown paper bags.
"I was five!"
"That's not an excuse!"
Oikawa stepped back, the tears all but coming down now. He grabbed the suitcase handle, and walked towards the door, where Iwaizumi was still waiting. "All I ever wanted was to make you proud, mama. But you're so self-absorbed, you don't even notice when I win. Just when I fail." He turned back to his mother, who was already looking at him. "Did you even know I got an award back in junior high for being the best setter?"
"I did." Oikawa rummaged around in his bag, pulling out the plaque. "This has been sitting in my room for three years mama. Not once have I ever heard you ask me about it. Congratulate me for earning it." He put it back gently, zipping up his suitcase and opening the front door, letting the cool spring air flow in. He turned back to look at his mom, putting on a genuine smile, which shocked both Iwaizumi and Oikawa-san. "Fuck you, mama. I hope you go to Hell."
The door slammed shut. Oikawa and Iwaizumi made their way over to the car, not taking long to drive away from Oikawa's house. Oikawa-san took a shaky breath, leaning over the kitchen island and held back a sob. "I'm so sorry, Tooru. I'm so sorry." She padded over to the window, opening the blinds and watching the two drive away, the car becoming smaller and smaller by the seconds. "I'm so proud of you."
⊱ ─ ‧̥̥͙⋅. ♔ .⋅‧̥̥͙ ─ ⊰
"Movie night!" Hanamaki cheered, shoving open the door to Iwaizumi's room and chucking the bag full of convenience store snacks onto the bedspread. "I wasted all my savings on this, you're welcome."
Oikawa giggled, covering his mouth as he did so. "Thanks, Makki. I'll pay for your lunch for a month, then." Hanamaki gasped, rushing over to kneel by Oikawa, taking both his hands.
"I love you."
Oikawa's eyes widened, and he held Makki's hands tighter. "I love you too!"
"Alright, lovebirds, cut it out." Iwaizumi hit both of them on the back of the head, ignoring their protests. And the little pang in his chest watching them flirt, even if it was just a joke. "Naruto marathon?"
Matsukawa went to sit by Hanamaki, leaning his head in the little crook between Hanamaki's head and shoulder. Waving his hand, he muttered, "Yeah, just pick up where you and Oikawa left off. We'll never finish it anyways, so what's the point?"
Iwaizumi nodded, flipping through his "continue watching?" list on the television. Everytime he and Oikawa had a sleepover, or just chilled at each other's houses, they usually binged whatever show was trending and looked interesting, but never seemed to finish any, except for the really short ones. "Maybe we will. We actually watched a lot of the show so we should be good."
"Yeah, we did." Oikawa leaned over Makki's legs and ruffled through the bag, pulling out a package of milkbread and one of those sour rainbow candy strips. "Ooh. You got a lot of stuff. I was just expecting a couple bags of chips."
Makki shrugged. "I told you I got a lot of stuff. And I'm not that bad."
Oikawa rolled his eyes, throwing his arms over Iwaizumi and squeezing him lightly, like he was his big teddy bear. Iwaizumi looked down at him fondly, ignoring Makki and Mattsun who couldn't control their snickers. He thumbed Oikawa's cheek as he flipped through shows, clicking on Naruto and leaning back with Oikawa's head still on his stomach. "You okay?"
"My face hurts a little." Oikawa admitted, burying his face in the folds of Iwaizumi's T-shirt. "It's like.. sore, I dunno."
Matsukawa rolled off of Hanamaki, walking over and leaning Oikawa's face up to find nothing out of the ordinary about it. "You look like normal. Did you put makeup on over.. whatever you have, again?"
Oikawa nodded hesitantly. "Yeah."
"Go wash it off." Iwaizumi said, nudging Oikawa off of him. "I don't want makeup smudges on my shirt, dumbass. When you get back, I'll put some herbal oil on your face to help get the bruises out." Oikawa laughed, and smiled, nodding.
"Okay, Iwa-chan.” He stood up and walked to the door, a little limp in his step. Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow at this, but said nothing. Once he had left, Iwaizumi paused the anime and leaned his head back onto his bed.
Makki crossed his arms over his chest, deep in thought. "You said he moved in officially- like, today- right?" Taking Iwaizumi's curt nod as an answer, he continued. "He seems to be doing a lot better than I thought he would."
Iwaizumi shrugged. "Yeah. He yelled at his mom while I was there, actually."
"Yeah, you should've seen his face. He was pissed." Iwaizumi shuddered at the memory. "Actually, he kind of scared me a little bit."
Matsukawa sputtered, letting out a deep laugh. "Who would've known," he managed to wheeze, "that the big bad Hajime Iwaizumi would've been scared of Aoba Johsai's number one womanizer."
The door to Hajime's room creaked open, and all three boys' heads swiveled around to see who had intruded on their conversation. Oikawa stepped in, stuffing his face into the fur of Iwaizumi's cat, who was currently purring in Oikawa's arms. Iwa sighed, gesturing for Oikawa to walk over. Thankfully, the setter obliged, sitting down next to him with the cat still shielding his face. "C'mon, it can't be that bad.. Lemme see." Iwaizumi mused, petting his cat while reassuring Oikawa it was okay.
"Can't be that bad my ass," Oikawa retorted, but set the cat down to glare at Iwa. "Happy?"
Iwaizumi stared at the injuries painting Oikawa's pale face. There was a small cut on his lip, above his eye, and on his forehead. A large bruise stretched from his chin to under his right ear. His nose also seemed a little crooked- his father must of broken it when he punched him- but it didn't look that bad. There were more noticeable bruises on his face and neck, and there were probably more under his clothes, too. Makki and Mattsun looked over at Oikawa and winced.
"Damn. That's gotta hurt." Hanamaki said, getting up and walking to Iwa's nightstand: probably to get the herbal oil. "Does it?"
Oikawa shrugged. "It's kind of sore, and the cuts sting. But other than that.." He shook his head. "I'm fine."
Iwaizumi grabbed the oil from Hanamaki's outstretched hand, unpausing the TV and patting his lap. "Put your head here. I'm gonna put the oil on you now." Oikawa nodded, laying his head down on Iwa's upper thighs, his hair falling down over his eyes. Iwaizumi brushed the tufts away, popping open the cap for the oil and pouring a small amount onto his fingertips. He pressed his fingers to Oikawa's face, rubbing the oil in a little harshly- but that was really the only way to apply it. "That okay?"
Tooru hummed in response, letting his eyes drift to the Naruto episode in front of him. His chocolate orbs darted from place to place, following the action on the screen. He was so goddamn attentive, even when just simply watching an animated show. Iwaizumi let his hands wander to Oikawa's hair, and he subconsciously ran his hand through the locks. The setter stiffened, unprepared for the sudden action.
"O-oh shit-sorry," Iwaizumi dropped his hand, a blush rising to his cheeks.
Oikawa didn't reply. He just grabbed Iwaizumi's hand and lifted it back towards his hair, a loopy smile on his face. "Don't mind, Iwa-chan." He whispered, and Iwa fell even deeper.
chapter 9 !
It’s been 50 days since Quackity’s first Lore Stream, and I thought I’d write a little something for the occasion. Our buddy c!dream is not doing well in the prison rn lmao
tw: torture, abuse, injuries, blood, broken bones, manipulation, gaslighting, mental deterioration, trauma, dark content, pandora’s vault/prison arc, c!quackity critical (again, not really, but a Very Dark portrayal of him)
Quackity’s in the middle of packing up his supplies for the day when he turns over; Dream flinches, automatic, but the winged man doesn’t come closer, hands still busied with rubbing off the blood on Warden’s Will. His good eye narrows, and Dream watches, half-lucid where he’s sprawled out over the obsidian in a puddle of his own blood, breath rattling in his chest and filling the silence with shuddering wheezes.
“It’s day fifty, you know,” he says, turning back towards his sword. Dream mulls the words over as his vision blurs, refocuses, letting them settle as his too-slow head catches up with the meaning. “Of my visits.”
He tries to respond, knows better than to ignore Quackity when he’s speaking, but the words escape his head halfway up his throat and the whole thing comes out as a garbled hum through his lips. Quackity hardly spares him a second glance, sheathing the sword and moving his hand to the axe, pulling it up from the floor and watching as blood drips down the blade onto the handle.
“You know, I said I would come for as long as I fuckin’ needed, and I don’t exactly plan on making myself a liar any time soon,” Quackity’s eye slants towards him, lips pressed together in an irritated frown that Dream recognizes as the one he wears when he’s more bothered than he lets on, “So you gonna talk? Or are we gonna have to go through another fifty?”
Dream keeps his eyes on the other stubbornly, refusing to look away even with the full force of Quackity’s glare directed at him. Hey- what can he say, it’s the end of the day and he’s more than a little delirious from the pain and adrenaline. He’s sure that he’ll regret it come tomorrow, but that’s a problem for future-Dream, not now-Dream. Now-Dream has enough to worry about with trying to stay conscious as it is.
Surprisingly enough, or maybe not surprisingly at all (say what you will about the daily visits and the torture and pain they’ve brought him, but seeing the same person for hours a day every single day does mean that you end up knowing them better than most. He can say a lot about Quackity, most of which involving bloodstained fantasies of revenge and memories of agony and every excruciating moment in between, but in the end he also knows the other man, for better or for worse), Quackity shakes his head, turning back to his work, and laughs. It’s a dry, bitter thing, whatever amusement left within having long cooled and sharpened into something viscous and wanting, but it’s still laughter, the sound so unfamiliar that it makes him physically recoil for a moment before his head catches up.
“You really are a stubborn bastard, aren’t you?” Quackity’s voice dips low in wry humor even as he looks away again, and Dream closes his eyes, lets the world go dark for a blissful second. “Fifty days- I have to say. I’m impressed! It’s really…quite impressive.”
Fifty days- Dream looks up again, head lolling over limply as he tries to look closer. Quackity never brought up the time before, had enjoyed in the psychological side of making him guess how long it’d been, in giving fake times and messing with his head without a clock to keep his head straight. In all honesty, there’s a side of him that’s convinced that he’s lying, but - well - it’s not like it matters, how long it’s been. It’s hardly like there’s a time limit or anything.
“Anyway,” he stands up suddenly, reaching up to stretch his arms, wings spreading to his sides, catching the light of the lava, seeping through the feathers, “We’ll have to cut today short, alright Dream? I have, well you know, arrangements. We’re celebrating.”
“Yeah?” Dream rolls his eyes, words thick in his mouth, and he spits out a mess of blood and other gunk onto the floor beside him, recoiling at the feeling. “Celebrating what?”
“Well, it’s been fifty days, hasn’t it?”
Quackity’s voice has shifted to a slight drawl, almost fond save for the edges, sharpened to a razor point and ready to cut through skin, muscle, bone. It’s a tone that Dream’s become all-too-familiar with, the sort of way Quackity speaks when he’s about to say something that he thinks will make him hurt, when he feels like using his words alone to drive a knife between his ribs and then twist the handle. It’s unassuming, slow, and cruel in every sense of the word, and Dream blinks slowly as he waits for the meaning to register in his pain-addled mind.
Quackity must take his silence for something else, because he laughs again - this one is one that Dream’s familiar with, a hissing, mocking thing that curdles the very air. “Oh- you didn’t think they didn’t know, did you? He turns back towards Dream, moves closer, hair having fallen over his scar and lips twisted in a smile that shows off his glinting golden tooth, “You really- you really fuckin’ thought they didn’t know, prime, this is pathetic Dream, this is a new low even for you.”
Know what- oh.
“Of course they know, Dream,” Quackity kneels in front of him, hand reaching forward to grab him by the jaw, running his thumb back and forth over a fresh cut slashed over his cheekbone and putting enough pressure on it to make it sting, “I told them ages ago - I told you, too, did you seriously fuckin’ forget? Prime- the whole point of you being in this shithole is for the revive book. Once I get it we can finally just kill you and be done with it - of course they know, man! They’re fuckin’ cheering me on.”
Dream watches, waits for the betrayal to come, hot and fast as it always has before. Waits for the rage to come bubbling up, dark and angry, waits for his hands to shake feebly with desperate fantasies of revenge that will probably never make it out of the walls of this obsidian hell. He waits, and waits, and waits, even as Quackity grins and walks to the back of the cell, a triumphant spring to his steps, and disappears in a shattered potion of harming that sends another wave of agony through his broken body.
And- it’s almost funny, nearly has him laughing hysterically in the middle of his cell, still spread in a mangled pile of broken bones and limbs twisted unnaturally, drenched in sweat and blood, because - of course, of course now he finally manages to do what he’s been trying for all along, of course now his traitorous, bleeding heart that never failed to bruise and fracture no matter how any layers of netherite he wrapped around himself finally, finally hardens, of course now after fifty fucking days of torture does he finally learn the lessons that he’s been trying to teach all along.
Lesson 27, he remembers himself saying, hands clasped around each other as he paced back and forth on a mountain’s peak, grass crumbling beneath his boots, do not reminisce on what you have lost for it will weigh you down.
It’s been fifty days, and Dream laughs, because after so, so long, he finally has no attachments - and it’s the best feeling in the world.
at least we won’t be the ones giving man city their first ucl 💀