Don’t You Love When You’re Casually Reading A Random Poem And Suddenly Come Across A Line That Burrows

every narrator is unreliable bc ontological truth is non-existent and therefore unattainable

born to be a henry winter forced to be a richard papen

why did we as a society stop putting gargoyles on everything. what fucking loser looked at a building and was like no actually this doesn’t need a horrid little creacher

she lives in the poetry she cannot write

each day i must leave the sweet, warm, tender embrace of my bed and venture into a cold, uncaring world that hates me being toasty warm and wants me to suffer for sins i have not yet committed

Henry Winter is so husband coded (I need to be institutionalized)

What I thought TSH was going to be:

Spilled wine; burning love letters; dainty breakfasts; pristine bookshelves; philosophy debates; romanticised elitism; riches beyond comprehension; red lipstick; quiet; poetry novels laying open on desks.

What is actually is:

Champagne in a teapot; wearing bedsheet togas; cocaine in a burger king parking lot; cutting hair with nail scissors; drinking in a country house; fucking at a funeral; sleeping in a warehouse or a giant snail; running out of money; "cubitum eamus"; homoerotic everything; finishing assignments before the professor shows up.

surely this fun coffee drink will save me from my immeasurable exhaustion

anarchism and god complex