you can’t spell weaboo without “we”. we’re all in this together, you fucking nerds
Lake of Golden Fireflies
Each night, droves of fireflies converge around the dark waters of this small lake. Upon death the water absorbs all but the golden compounds shed by their wings.
And that is why, though dazzling to behold from afar, it is a place only a fox dare tread.
Good fishing to be had here, so says Sol.
Behind the Curtain at the New York City Ballet photographed by Henry Leutwyler
I was sitting on sea ice when I heard a little peep over my shoulder.