taiey:

The curtains were blue because everything in the room was carefully colour coordinated, reinforcing the character’s stylish and controlled characterisation. The curtains were blue because everything in the room was a different colour, reinforcing the character’s eclectic and globe-trotting personality. The curtains were blue because the character is elsewhere established to hate the colour blue, subtextually implying that their deceased spouse was responsible for that decoration choice.

The curtains were blue because throughout their filmography the director consistently uses cool tones to mark moments of distance between characters. The curtains were blue to tie the events in that room into the broader oceanic motif of this particular novel. The curtains were blue because the assonance evoked a contrast with the following stanza of the poem.

Even the curtains looked expensive: floor to ceiling velvet drapes, in a flawless royal blue. She tucked the saucer up on the windowsill and tied back faded blue curtains with a loop of string. The narrow blinds were the same navy blue as the pinstripe suit of the man who served eviction notice that sent them to this office.

The curtains were blue because the author’s childhood home had blue curtains, which they discussed in their letters related to their feelings of comfort in that place. The curtains were blue because the author’s childhood home had blue curtains, which they discussed in their letters related to their feelings of grief in that place.

The curtains were blue as an allusion to the contemporary joke about literary criticism, an extension of the author’s autocritical approach that will be further discussed in section seven.

The curtains were red, as a pun on;

The curtains were read.

inkskinned:

in this light, what have they fed you?

when you’re very, very quiet, sometimes the truth of it starts glinting in the river water: all this time, and you’re still choking on grief.

ironic, you are so good at taking care of others. almost second-nature; you listen carefully. you try to help, always. where did you learn that when someone else is in pain, it’s your responsibility? that you must be the one to take it in, to sublimate it, to make something good from it.

it almost feels like you’re just balancing a scale - you sense you are somehow guilty of something, just-for-being. you can untilt that scale, as long as you are permanently helping.

it is possible to starve for love while eating out of the hand of someone you care for. birds gorge on bread and die hungry.

other people shove their anxieties and hurt and misery down your throat, and you just. swallow it. you keep it in your belly and try to turn it into something; try to burn it like coal.

sometimes you wake up and think oh, i see. the rest of me is just smoke.


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