تابستانمان اين‌گونه میگذرد

imagine talking shit about me and im just in my room like

When he died, all things swift and beautiful and bright would be buried with him. The rosy gleam of his lip, the fevered green of his eyes. There was not a line anywhere on his face, nothing creased or graying; all crisp. He was spring, golden and bright. Envious
Death would drink his blood, and grow young again.

-the song of Achilles

کوبیدن سر خودم به دیوار چون نمی‌تونم بابامو بندازم چرخ گوشت

خیلی خوشگله یه گریه ای کردم

اصلا فکرشم نمیکردم نقاشی با وایتکس انقدر سخت باشه😦

بهم ایده بدید روی این بوم چی بکشم