Send me a word and a character/series/pairing and I will write a drabble:

squirreltastic:

Cheiloproclitic - Being attracted to someones lips.
Quidnunc - One who always has to know what is going on.
Ultracrepidarian - Of one who speaks or offers opinions on matters beyond their knowledge.
Apodyopis - The act of mentally undressing someone.
Gymnophoria - The sensation that someone is mentally undressing you.
Tarantism - The urge to overcome melancholy by dancing.
Autolatry - The worship of one’s self.
Cagamosis - An unhappy marriage.
Gargalesthesia - The sensation caused my tickling.
Capernoited - Slightly intoxicated or tipsy.
Lalochezia - The use of abusive language to relieve stress or ease pain.
Cataglottism - Kissing with tongue.
Basorexia - An overwhelming desire to kiss.
Brontide - The low rumbling of distant thunder.
Grapholagnia - The urge to stare at obscene pictures.
Agelast - A person who never laughs.
Wanweird - An unhappy fate.
Dystopia - Am imaginary place of total misery. A metaphor for hell.
Petrichor - The smell of dry rain on the ground.
Anagapesis - The feeling when one no longer loves someone they once did.
Malapert - Clever in manners of speech.
Duende - Unusual power to attract or charm.
Concilliabule - A secret meeting of people who are hatching a plot.
Strikhedonia - The pleasure of being able to say “to hell with it”.
Lygerastia - The condition of one who is only amorous when the lights are out.

Ayurnamat - The philosophy that there is no point in worrying about events that cannot be changed.
Sphallolalia - Flirtatious talk that leads no where.
Baisemain - A kiss on the hand.
Druxy - Something which looks good on the outside, but is actually rotten inside.
Mamihlapinatapei - The look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move.

tildaswintonwearsasuit:

Tilda Swinton by Ryan Pfluger

Cities are smells: Acre is the smell of iodine and spices. Haifa is the smell of pine and wrinkled sheets. Moscow is the smell of vodka on ice. Cairo is the smell of mango and ginger. Beirut is the smell of the sun, sea, smoke, and lemons. Paris is the smell of fresh bread, cheese, and derivations of enchantment. Damascus is the smell of jasmine and dried fruit. Tunis is the smell of night musk and salt. Rabat is the smell of henna, incense and honey. A city that cannot be known by its smell is unreliable. Exiles have a shared smell: the smell of longing for something else; a smell that remembers another smell. A painting, nostalgic that guides you, like a worn tourist map, to the smell of the original place. A smell is a memory and a setting sun. Sunset, here, is beauty rebuking the stranger.

But to love the sunset is not, as they say, one of the attributes of exile.

— Mahmoud Darwish, In the Presence of Absence (via gilbertnorrell) —

Enchantée. 

megaparsecs:

A reminder for this day that supporting the idea that Oxford or Sir Francis Bacon or whoever wrote Shakespeare’s works is inherently classist and undermines the very essence of what makes Shakespeare great: the universality of his writing.

Shakespeare didn’t write to impress academics or to become reknown in literary circles, he wrote because he loved it and he loved acting and the theater, because he liked showing people up and he liked getting paid.

Shakespeare wrote a lot of plays where the main characters are noble, yes, but he wrote actors too — and teenage kids and poor grad students and nurses. His nobles aren’t memorable because they are grand but because anyone can relate to them, Hamlet’s not special to us because he’s a prince but because many of us can see our struggles in his thoughts and actions.

Do not let Oxfordians or Baconians take away what is special about Shakespeare: that he was an ordinary man writing plays not just for nobles or kings, for landowners or the highly educated elite but for ordinary people — for apprentices and butchers and merchant’s wives and maids. His company performed at court, but they also performed at the Globe, where you could get in for a penny if you didn’t mind standing in a crowd.

The Authorship Question isn’t really about discovering “who really wrote Shakespeare,” it’s about elitists being upset and confused and angry because the greatest works in the English language were written by the son of a well-off tradesman who never went to college. 

“The heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves
as though we were drowning inside our hearts
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.”

Pablo Neruda, from “Nothing But Death,” translated by Robert Bly. (via literarymiscellany) —