I could have you every night
And if by morning I’d forgotten you
Well no big deal, that’d be all right
Cause you’re the reoccurring kind” —You Will. You? Will. You? Will. You? Will (via loveyourchaos)
i wonder if somebody has ever followed me and then 10 sec later they start to cry and whisper to themselves “what have i done”
blake i think your biggest mistake in life was pressing follow
I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
who made me laugh
It’s sinking in that I don’t get to have Arwen anymore. I’ve been avoiding thinking about all of this.
I am so stressed out.
Fuck, just give me one day where I don’t have the entire weight of the world on my shoulders. Give me one day where my bike’s tires don’t get fucking slashed in my yard or where plans actually follow through and I don’t end up having to give Arwen to the SPCA.
I just need some time to breathe.
dropping your computer on your foot is so great
If someone is not strongly and widely chastised and disowned for using “I’ll rape a pregnant bitch and call it a threesome” in song lyrics, then our society has a giant fucking problem.
At this time of night I often feel my heart breaking into a million little pieces, many of which I won’t find again.
i do not have the energy
Same city, different house.
It is a white frame house, freshly painted, on a gentle hill. It has no windows, except a little room at the top with two tiny round portholes, curtains closed, like shut eyes. Around the house, yellow grass. There are no trees, no neighbours. We stand in front. “This is our house.” These words come as a though, no from you, not from me. It is understood that here is where we will spend our lives. We go inside, me leading the way. In the darkness, we see ornate heirloom furniture, heavy grandmotherly armchairs and sofas with doilies on their backs. The air is musty, suffocating. We need to get out- fast.
We are outside. The sunlight is brilliant. The house is blinding white, too white to look at. All around, an empty yellow plain, leading to a flat, featureless horizon. We have set up a table. On it we have gathered remaining things from our previous life- file folders, candles, some pots, a few old mugs, two broken pencils, a clock with no hands. We intend it as a garage sale. But it is clear that no one will come to buy.
Death by Brian Campbell
when you’re so exhausted that you don’t even realize what you’re sending in a text