imagine young kirk learning to run as fast as his little legs can take him. imagine him learning to differentiate between the footfalls of his mother and (step)father. imagine him using everything he learned from a mean old man with whiskey on his breath to survive on tarsus.
imagine him laughing years down the road, because if nothing else, Frank taught him to survive ("you should be grateful, you little shit").
+SHOOT ME IN THE FACE AND LIGHT MY CORPSE ON FIRE AND IT WOULD STILL BE LESS PAINFUL THAN JIM KIRK’S CHILDHOOD (tags via brokebackwinchesters)
if there’s any logic to this universe;
Czesław Miłosz, “Ars Poetica?”
Nicole Krauss, The History of Love