#I love how in the movies he’s like ‘yes. it hurts every time they come out’ ANGST ANGST ANGST #and in the cartoons he’s just like yolo i’m a fuckin mutant bitch this shit better make my life easier somehow #so he just uses his claws for everyday tasks #because what good are they if YOU DON’T USE THEM TO CUT SALAMI
I find this oddly soothing.
this is so hecking gross
First thing I thought of when I re-blogged it the first time.
Cities are smells: Acre is the smell of iodine and spices. Haifa is the smell of pine and wrinkled sheets. Moscow is the smell of vodka on ice. Cairo is the smell of mango and ginger. Beirut is the smell of the sun, sea, smoke, and lemons. Paris is the smell of fresh bread, cheese, and derivations of enchantment. Damascus is the smell of jasmine and dried fruit. Tunis is the smell of night musk and salt. Rabat is the smell of henna, incense and honey. A city that cannot be known by its smell is unreliable. Exiles have a shared smell: the smell of longing for something else; a smell that remembers another smell. A painting, nostalgic that guides you, like a worn tourist map, to the smell of the original place. A smell is a memory and a setting sun. Sunset, here, is beauty rebuking the stranger.
But to love the sunset is not, as they say, one of the attributes of exile.