ihavenosoulsendhelp

okay yall i am alive lol. i might update again, i might not. im planning to though. im sorry for making you all wait all the time, consistency has been hard for me since i started this story for a lot of reasons. thank you all for reading my stuff anyways, just know that i never really planned any particular ending or future plot stuff, so if the story doesnt get finished, you wont be missing out on anything. so yeah. again, i plan to update soon but yeah. thanks for reading my stuff <3

0746942a

@ihavenosoulsendhelp its ok if you dont update! as much as i love your story, mental health matters! and im aware its been a year, but its okay! take a break if you need one <3
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akusbf

@ihavenosoulsendhelp i love your fic sm i’m not ready for a ending lmfaoo
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akusbf

@ihavenosoulsendhelp I’M LATE BUT IM SO HAPPY RN
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poopypoopyfartvbucks

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow
          by Washington Irving
          FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS
          OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER.
          A pleasing land of drowsy head it was,
              Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;
          And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
              Forever flushing round a summer sky.
                              CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.
          
          In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small market town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley or rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.
          
          I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noontime, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own

streetsmrtss

2 yearsss i hope youre okk ahh

poopypoopyfartvbucks

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by every one who resides there for a time. However wide awake they may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative, to dream dreams, and see apparitions.
            
            I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud, for it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there embosomed in the great State of New York, that population, manners, and customs remain fixed, while the great torrent of migration and improvement, which is making such incessant changes in other parts of this restless country, sweeps by them unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still water, which border a rapid stream, where we may see the straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. Though many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should not still find the same trees and the same families vegetating in its sheltered bosom.
            
            In this by-place of nature there abode, in a remote period of American history, that is to say, some thirty years since, a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, “tarried,” in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a native of Connecticut, a S
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