BAAAWWW ULQUIORRA. Sometimes, KT does get the emotional tone really spot-on. The fangirl in me feels sort of overwhelmed. I think I'm going to need to write some more Ulqui, although I'm not too sure what there really is to write about anymore. I wish I would've written some UlquiHime that was actually romance, but then again, given the revelations of recent chapters, that doesn't really work either.
If somebody hasn't already shooped Ceiling Cat looking down on Yammy from that hole in the sky... well, they need to. I swear, someday I'm going to figure out how to use Photoshop correctly someday.
Yammy is Rukia's karmic retribution for being able to beat an Espada. Yes, I am still pissed off about that.
I'm excited for more Hitsugaya and more Halibel. Halibel needs more fan love, and Hitsugaya needs more sane fan love.
Lol, I think Nagato has phallic symbolism when he's shooting his chakra-rod-things at Naruto. OH GOD KISHI WHY DO YOU DO THINGS LIKE THIS TO US SERIOUSLY IT'S NOT FUNNY ANYMORE.
Konan didn't say, "Wow, what a guy!" This makes me disappointed somehow. :(
Ahaha Nagato called Jiraiya an idealist. Whut.
Kishi's drawing seems to be getting... weirder by the chapter. Does anyone else know what I mean? Especially Konan, she just looks strange in some of the pictures. I don't really envy the people trying to icon the past few chapters.
Also: here is the beginning of The Quest For Christa T. (which is a very, very strange book, btw-- it's one of those ones where it's hard to tell a lot of the time what happened or whether anything actually happened at all). I'm not sure why, given that it probably could be applied to a lot of people in a lot of different series, but this reminds me of my dearest Itachi:
The quest for her: in the thought of her. And of the attempt to be oneself. She speaks of this in her diaries, which we have, on the loose manuscript pages that have been found, and between the lines of those letters of hers that are known to me. I must forget my memory of Christa T.-- that is what these documents have taught me. Memory puts a deceptive color on things.
But must we give her up for lost?
I feel that she is disappearing. There she lies, in her village cemetery, beneath two buckthorn bushes, dead among the dead. What is she doing there? Six feet of earth on top of her, and the Mecklenburg sky above, the larks calling in springtime, summer storms, the winds in autumn, and the snow. She's disappearing. No ears now to hear complaints with; no eyes to see tears with; no mouth with which to answer reproaches. The complaints, tears, and reproaches are still with us, and they are useless. Finally we're shown the door, and we try to find consolation in the oblivion which people call memory.
Yet she still needs to be protected against oblivion. This is where the evasions begin. It's not against oblivion that she needs to be protected, but against being forgotten. For she, naturally, forgets; she has forgotten herself, us, heaven and earth, rain and snow. But I can still see her. Worse, I can do what I like with her. I can summon her up quite easily with a quotation, more than I could do for most living people. She moves, if I want her to. Effortlessly she walks before me, yes, that's her long stride, her shambling walk. And there too, proof enough, is the big red and white ball she's chasing on the beach. The voice I hear isn't the voice of a ghost: no doubt about it, it's her voice, it is Christa T. Invoking her, lulling my suspicions, I even name her name, and now I'm quite certain of her. But all the time I know that it's a film of shadows being run off the reel, a film that was once projected in the real light of cities, landscapes, living rooms. Suspicions, suspicions: what is this fear doing to me?
For the fear is something new. It's as if she had to die all over again, or as if I was failing an obligation to do something important. I'd never realized that, for a whole year, her image in my mind hasn't changed; and there's no hope of her changing. Not a person or thing in the world can make her dark fuzzy hair go gray as mine will. No new wrinkles will appear at the corners of her eyes. She was older than I, and now she's younger: thirty-five, terribly young.
All right, idk, seriously. I want to use that for a epigraph for a fic or something, but I don't know how successful I would be at trying to whittle it down to just a few sentences.
This is how much I haven't been paying attention to Tsubasa lately. My reaction to this chapter: Wait, Fay got his eye back? When did that happen? :O