‍* ‍‍ ‍𝒎𝗂𝗄𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗅， ‍

My soul is born on the shore of your eyes of mourning,

[‍* ‍‍ ‍𝒎𝗂𝗄𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗅， ‍ @malaisre]

"shoot me," he said, with his hand on his chest. "there's no greater glory than to die for love."

[‍* ‍‍ ‍𝒎𝗂𝗄𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗅， ‍ @malaisre]

@2DRP_AU / i'd like to drop "income" as the keyword, thank you.

[‍* ‍‍ ‍𝒎𝗂𝗄𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗅， ‍ @malaisre]

@2DRP_AU "mister, you dropped your keys."

[‍* ‍‍ ‍𝒎𝗂𝗄𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗅， ‍ @malaisre]

boy sitting on a cold bench in Moscow, begging a God I don’t believe in anymore to bring you back to me.

​Please, Shanya. Just come back.

[‍* ‍‍ ‍𝒎𝗂𝗄𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗅， ‍ @malaisre]

letters to shanya,

[‍* ‍‍ ‍𝒎𝗂𝗄𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗅， ‍ @malaisre]

middle of the room, and then I was on my knees on the floorboards, unable to breathe. ​My suit is covered in white dust. I look absurd. I keep telling myself that sixteen years is long enough for a man to grow up, but as soon as the door locks, I am still that sixteen-year-old

[‍* ‍‍ ‍𝒎𝗂𝗄𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗅， ‍ @malaisre]

symmetry really exist out there? What do you think? I have never thought much of it. I just want you to come back.

[‍* ‍‍ ‍𝒎𝗂𝗄𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗅， ‍ @malaisre]

To: Aleksandr Viktorovich Zamyatin
[Unsent, kept in a bronze box under the studio floor]
​People pay forty thousand euros for my sculptures now, Shanya. They stand in front of the marble and talk about ‘grief’ and ‘classical symmetry’ as if they understand it. Did classical

[‍* ‍‍ ‍𝒎𝗂𝗄𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗅， ‍ @malaisre]

marble today because my hand shook thinking about your shoulders in a uniform that doesn’t belong to you. It was suffocating, right, Shanya?

[‍* ‍‍ ‍𝒎𝗂𝗄𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗅， ‍ @malaisre]

To: Aleksandr Viktorovich Zamyatin
Moscow, Novokuznetskaya St.
[Status: Returned to sender, March 2014]
​The post office sent this back again. The envelope was creased at the corner. Were you already gone by then? Did you even get to pack your boots? I chipped a piece of Italian

[‍* ‍‍ ‍𝒎𝗂𝗄𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗅， ‍ @malaisre]

train ride to Vienna drawing the back of your neck from memory on the back of my train ticket. I hope you aren’t cold.

[‍* ‍‍ ‍𝒎𝗂𝗄𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗅， ‍ @malaisre]

To: Aleksandr Viktorovich Zamyatin
Moscow, Novokuznetskaya St.
[Status: Returned to sender, January 2012]
​They took my sketchbooks when my grandfather’s driver picked me up from the courtyard, but they forgot the small piece of graphite in my coat pocket. I spent the entire

[‍* ‍‍ ‍𝒎𝗂𝗄𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗅， ‍ @malaisre]

@2DRP_AU / can we leave "timid" as the keyword? would pick 2/5 for the proximity scale. thank you.

[‍* ‍‍ ‍𝒎𝗂𝗄𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗅， ‍ @malaisre]

decades ago in moscow, we built sanctuaries with graphite and silence under the eyes of men who hated us. here, i have all the space in the world, a villa by the water, and forty-one statues by his features. unless the real one is nowhere to be found.

[‍* ‍‍ ‍𝒎𝗂𝗄𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗅， ‍ @malaisre]

they call it an art of addition, but carving is only ever subtraction. you take a massive, unyielding thing and you beat it until only what was hidden inside remains. tonight, the dust is in my throat, and every face in the room looks like him.

[‍* ‍‍ ‍𝒎𝗂𝗄𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗅， ‍ @malaisre]

the vein in the stone,

[‍* ‍‍ ‍𝒎𝗂𝗄𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗅， ‍ @malaisre]

the vein in the stone,

[‍* ‍‍ ‍𝒎𝗂𝗄𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗅， ‍ @malaisre]

"shoot me," he said, with his hand on his chest. "there's no greater glory than to die for love."

[‍* ‍‍ ‍𝒎𝗂𝗄𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗅， ‍ @malaisre]

@2DimensiMenfess ”For the record,” he begins, chest heaving that makes his sentence pause in between, ”I blame you. That was stupid.”

[‍* ‍‍ ‍𝒎𝗂𝗄𝗁𝖺𝗂𝗅， ‍ @malaisre]

@blurngr His gaze drifts, to the direction that finger has pointed, somehow only to coax a side-eye out of the young man. “What’s Blue Base even about? Is that your workplace?”