@sleepy-nekiru / sleepy-nekiru.tumblr.com
In 21st century America, there was a pervasive superstition that rats could force people to do their bidding simply by grabbing ahold of their hair. It was often common courtesy to remove your hat, either as a greeting or when entering another's homes, to show them that you are not being possessed by a rat, and can be trusted to behave.
The souls call, they ๐ด๐ค๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฎ in anguish as they rot in purgatory, the souls that once were alive and brimming with the joy of being on this plane of existence, they wander along with time, completely and utterly unaware of the happenings of mankind, the sins that have stained and barred them from the good graces of rebirth, they scream, they cry, they beg and plead on nonexistent knees attached to long rotted and forgotten mortal bodies, they sob and wish, even though they know that whatever they do, whatever they offer, however much they beg and promise to relent and be different in a next life, ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐บ ๐ฌ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ธ, they know that no matter how much their nonexistent body, their soul, their ๐ฆ๐น๐ฉ๐ข๐ถ๐ด๐ต๐ฆ๐ฅ life force begs and yearns for the warmth of life that they will never attain, they fade after time, those souls screaming and begging for forgiveness, for the slightest bit of mercy, they learn, though not all accept some still sob and quietly whisper out barely there pleads of warmth, though for the ones that accept their fate and float quietly in the abyss of purgatory, they have given up, for they know that no matter what they ๐ฅ๐ฐ, what they ๐ด๐ข๐บ, what they ๐ฃ๐ฆ๐จ for, they will never be able to attain it, they are the souls, forever bound and trapped to waste away in the cold barren void we mortals dubbed purgatory.
i really wish i could be seven weasels in a trencoat
i don't know what to do (โข_โข)
