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Nothing will ever top Spock's death from The Wrath of Khan. Those two, three seconds when he makes up his mind with nothing else showing of it than a slight wistfulness in his eyes. He doesn't hesitate saving his friends even though he knows he's going to die in agony. And the scene immediately following where he walks into the safety glass because the radiation has made him blind and Kirk's quiet, broken "no." ;_;

*side-eyes Into Darkness*

I enjoy watching film and TV deaths, the more tragic the better. It gives me that catharsis that I need, allows me to cry without feeling broken about it, because I know it's fiction. It's not real. No one died for real.

I'm feeling healthier about Anton Yelchin. My friend S talked me off the ledge as it was. I wasn't sleeping, just playing the same obsessive thoughts over and over again. There's nothing I can do. I can't bring anyone back from the dead. If I could, I'd bring him back.

He should be partying with his friends and making movies and having a family of his own (if he wanted) and if he didn't want to keep playing Chekov, the character could have been killed off in a touching sequence that made me cry and was turned into beautiful gifsets on Tumblr. But I'm not going to get that, and that's just the way it is.

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Some kind of saviour

March 2022

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