hotcommunist:

me, uncovering a shallow grave of moss and driftwood: hey hozier what’s the mood for pride

hozier, blinking up at the light, awakened from his slumber: the ghost of the lesbian that possessed me when I wrote work song asks that the parades be bathed in light so beautiful it is hitherto unknown outside of the golden hours, that her children be protected, that everyone has a place in the shade to rest with the fawns and magpies, and that cops are drowned.

me, tucking him back in until it’s a new moon: thanks bud