After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,
And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security.
And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises …
After a while you learn…
That even sunshine burns if you get too much.
So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
This is always the thing that angers me about games that take place in post apocalyptic settings
there’s like 3 stars in the sky and man
there’s no more fucking light pollution show me the god damn stars
They’ve run out of food.
There’s not much she’s certain of, scrabbling in the dirt, through the last of the supplies salvaged from the last broken down ghost town, but the lack of food is getting damn near impossible to ignore.
The last town was a day’s drive back. They’d been headed to the mountains, where there’d be less danger and more room the breathe, but she’d thought the food would last a little longer. Her belly growled, as if on cue, and she groaned, leaning her head against the side of the dented Jeep they were calling home these days.
He took her hand, gently, but she didn’t look up.
"Hey," he said, softly.
"We’re gonna starve," she murmured back, like she would have said to her wife long ago, if they were out of toilet paper and it wasn’t her turn to run to the store. It could be a death sentence out here, but hey, the world ended: skirting death was kind of a way of life now. "What’s even the goddamn point?"
He pulled on her hand, “Come on.”
"What are you even doing?" she groaned, but she followed where he lead. A day’s drive from New York City’s broken husk and it was darker than she’d ever seen it, so she followed the little bright spark of his lighter in the darkness and prayed to God she wouldn’t trip.
She prayed to God for a lot of things, nowadays: this one, she felt, was small enough to truly hope for.
After a moment, he stopped, and she could almost hear the smile in his voice. “Look up,” he said. She did.
In all the weeks they’d spent trying to survive, there’d never been a clear night when she wasn’t dead to the world. How had she missed this? The sky was teeming, on fire with stars she’d never even thought of before, like a child had spilled silver ink on black water. It was beautiful, empty and cold and too far away to dream of touching, too damn far to be of any help or use, but beautiful all the same.
"There’s the point," she murmured. Then she grinned, "Thousands of them."
"Infinity," he agreed, "funny how we seem so much closer now, eh?"
She shrugged, “Apocalypse, man,” she muttered, “it’ll do that.”
After that, she tried always to remember to glance up whenever she could at a clear night sky. It wasn’t exactly a silver lining, but there was enough silver involved to make the exercise feel worthwhile.
petition for a doctor who episode where the doctor travels back in time to meet arthur conan doyle and accidentally happens to mention how popular sherlock holmes is even 130 years later and poor acd almost breaks down crying
"Doctor before you leave…just tell me one thing."
"My books, the Sherlock Holmes books…do they die out?"
"No, Arthur. People love them. They carry on for hundreds of years."
"Damnit. God damnit. Fuck."