meybuyan reblogged
theyre so funky
That's like the ultimate "they're already married, your honor"
@chaoticly-shy-dragon 's tags
meybuyan reblogged
Bet on losing dogs
meybuyan reblogged
DEAD BOYS AND SWEET REVENGE, ANYONE?
jayden revri is streaming rn on https://www.twitch.tv/narrrquise
Her Poetry
Despair splayed her heft languidly against the nothingness that decorated her halls. The not-floor is damp from the heavy mist, and she relished at the dew forming between the folds of her skin. Today, she would observe pain. Just as she always had for millenia.
The mirror for today was of a small set of three; a rear view mirror and two side ones of a small bus of sorts. In the slums of Manila, they called it a jeepney. This one in particular was driven by a Domingo Rosales. The man was old, with a belly bloated from beer and a towel over his sweaty forebrow.
It soon became time to sink hook into her skin. Poke, snag, pull, she did not feel its pain. Instead, there was heat.
It came at once, like her skin was his skin, his heart, her heart. She felt the scourge of the sun on her face and the buzz of the engine under her seat. She heard the horns and the yelling and the whispering and the coins. She smelled the smoke, the pollution that littered the very air of this city. She tasted the dryness in his mouth, his throat growing hoarse as he called out for payments. One by one, she counted the math of pennies as passengers paid their fares. So menial the task, the man survived through days of traffic simply to feed his shining son.
His son. His son. He had not hit his son yet. He would kill him soon. But not yet. He did not even know yet that his son would skip school today to play some silly game in an arcade across town. That would all happen in a few hours, when his frustration from the traffic would cause him to speed through a red light. She already saw how it must come to pass.
Despair's work was poetry, and it was something the others did not comprehend. The other Endless had such glorious tasks; to weave dreams or collect souls or play games. But her task was to observe. To remember. To feel. To be so intimate with humanity, she knew the way their skin tingled and hair raised like animals nearing a trap.
Despair, understood mankind. That must have been why they killed her.
She sat content in the liminal, between states of life, in the unreality of dreams, the dissatisfaction of desire, the wake of destruction, the mourning of death. Always a little before and always a little after. She wasn't the most eternal of her siblings, but she was the most perpetual. It was a shame she would not see them go.
Then, the mirror shattered— and Despair smiled. Finally, she thought, I shall watch a crash from a thousand sides.
meybuyan reblogged
An unused 1990's era idea sketch for a SANDMAN pinup: Death sewing the AIDS quilt.
meybuyan reblogged
meybuyan reblogged
you guys are like a dead married couple on acid
meybuyan reblogged
the best person I know.
this post feels..... E N D L E S S
#a very long mural piece#just had fun trying to make my own version of each of the endless#dream of the endless#death of the endless#despair of the endless#desire of the endless#destruction of the endless#delirium of the endless#destiny of the endless#sandman#sandman fanart#the sandman#the sandman fanart#dream#death#desire#despair#destiny#destruction#delirium#the endless#morpheus#not comic or show accurate#my art#art
meybuyan reblogged
Mixed media for lady Crystal
meybuyan reblogged
Tumblr Tuesday: Brills!
Hello to all sleuths, dead or alive, demon-tormented or pixie-riddled! You're celebrating the dead boy detectives and their friends and foes in style, and we're so here for it.
(Spoilers ahead! Please proceed with the same caution you would perhaps employ upon approaching a ghost trapped in the here and now <3)
meybuyan reblogged
I am haunted by the detailed, completed map of Hell that Edwin took notes on. You don’t understand, it makes me sick. It’s one thing to have a basic layout, a vague idea, or a rudimentary map but it was meticulously detailed. Down to doors and what they do and where they go. Down to secret spaces in the walls. He even knew what ringing an innocuous bell would do. It can only mean one thing. We don’t know when Edwin began trying to escape, but assuming he started from the get go, it means that he spent all his decades in Hell trying to find a way out. He never stopped running. And that is assuming he never stopped. From his second trip, we could see he resorted to his old ways and ran. But he was eventually caught, reduced to pieces. Even when Charles showed up, he didn’t seem very optimistic about their chances. He could feel every second of those 70 years. There were likely many times he fell to hopelessness, trembling in the corner watching himself be desecrated knowing it was going to happen again and again. How long? How many times did he try to be so, so quiet, hoping he would have a few moments before the next round? How many times did he muster the ability to run, just one more time? How long did it take him to run, discovering the ends of each ring? How many times did he sprint up, down, north, south, east, west, trying to escape? And what happened when he finally escaped? How long did it take for him to be able to relax, even a little? Because he can never relax. He must always outrun Death and her constituents because he can’t count on them to be fair. How many times does he look over his shoulder, waiting for the monster to claim its eternal meal once again? His breath of fresh air, his first taste of companionship in ages not only keeps him company, but sticks by him. And then, in that blessing there comes a curse, because now you have something to lose. Because when you taste ambrosia how can you return to starvation? He feels safe with Charles. Happy and comfortable, but the threat always lingers. And he knows that Charles couldn’t fend off Death. He never considered he could fend off Hell beasts; after all, he’s just a ghost kid. He watches innocents be slaughtered on repeat, unphased by the level of violence but no less affected by it, because no one has even a clue what it takes to be this kind. Even at his most happy, he has so, so much to lose and he goes back to Hell when hope was dangled in his face like the fruit of Tantalus. When he returns, he’s subjected to Hell once again, sustaining through torture that obliterates souls, only to watch his best friend, his confidant, his platonic soulmate, die horrifically. This woman who gave him sea-glass courage, so powerful and yet so fragile. Allowed him to be himself, gave him permission to do so. Was the openness to his closed self, and now she is gone. And he retains his composure, his stiff, British posture because it is what has saved him from madness and Despair, protected him, and now the world is darker without Niko Sasaki in it. But surely he saw this coming. After all, humans are messy. And yet, he shows up for their souls, time and time again.
Edwin Payne is THE character.