It's Amazing How Ordinary Objects Can Become So Significant To Only The Owner

“learned a lot. in the end though, i kind of screwed it up."

"i called over there for a reference, left word with some snooty girl. next thing you know, i got a fax from miranda priestly herself... saying that of all the assistants she's ever had... you were, by far, her biggest disappointment. and, if i don't hire you, i am an idiot. you must have done something right." | the devil wears prada (2006)

I do not know many things, my love

but I know — for you

even my hate will be soft.

I’ll be writing poems about you until I die.

Charles Bukowski, You Get So Alone at Times That it Just Makes Sense /Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet/Franz Kafka, Letters to Felice‎

imagine the picture of dorian gray (1891) but dorian is jude law in wilde (1997) and lord henry is hugh grant in maurice (1987)

“𝐼'𝑚 𝑎𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑎 𝑙𝑜𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑙𝑦, 𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑦, 𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑎𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑦 𝑢𝑛𝑟𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑖𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒.”

—L.M. Dorsey, She Is Made of Chalk

"Have you ever had that feeling—that you'd like to go to a whole different place and become a whole different self?"

10.20.19

anxiety is nicotine.

and by that, I mean the way it seeps through my veins faster than coffee but slower than blood.

Depression is lukewarm coffee at 9pm on a Tuesday.

and by that, I mean every day runs at warp speed / and I miss the milestones

my blood is made of

nicotine and coffee / muffins and tea / poison and toast

Anxiety is nicotine / and by that I mean / I am trying to quit / but like clouds before a thunderstorm / you'll follow me through

manwhore. bisexual. incest. eating disorder. poet. cheater. aristocrat. bipolar. celebrity. single dad of bastards. died in a war.

lord byron, you are my dream.

climbing into a giant’s lap and laying down on their thigh and letting out the biggest most saddest pathetic sighs in the world until i get attention

“Summer arrives in a strawberry, sweet, juicy. As long as you feel its flesh on your tongue you’re unaware how. One minute inches into the next. But how could you observe awareness anyway? Or, for that matter, a thought? It grows in you, not as a sensation. (Nor like a baby or tumor.) An experience that you can’t hold on to. Any more than to the smell of lilac. Though it soothes emptiness.”

— Rosmarie Waldrop, from “Asymmetry (2)”, The Nick of Time: Poems