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❝ And I dream too much and I donʼt write enough and Iʼm trying to find God everywhere. ❞

— Anis Mojgai

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what doesn't kill you makes you weird at intimacy

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not my prodigal ass returning

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please please please let me get what i want september

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THE LESSON OF WUTHERING HEIGHTS, OF GREEK TRAGEDY, AND ULTIMATELY, OF ALL RELIGIONS, IS THAT THERE IS AN INSTINCTIVE TENDENCY TOWARDS DIVINE INTOXICATION WHICH THE RATIONAL WORLD OF CALCULATION CANNOT BEAR.* IF YOURE LISTENING!! IF YOU EVEN CARE!!!!

*Georges Bataille, Literature and Evil

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Anna Karina breaking the fourth wall

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@academia-lucifer

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— Anaïs Nin, from The Voice

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I have three beverages advising me at all times

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sorry for how I acted when there were multiple noises happening at the same time

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still. after all of it. mostly, i want to be kind

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— Georgia O'Keeffe

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“I have no teacher, no guide. Must I hideously stumble my way through this?”

— Nhl

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the way I love cinema, films, literature, and poetry so much that it physically hurts to even talk about

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“I saw my life branching out before me like the greening fig tree in the story. From tip from every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was European and African and South American, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to winkle and go black, and, one by one they plopped to the ground at my feet.”

- The Bell Jar, by Slyvia Plath

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Although I admit, I desire, occasionally, some backtalk from the mute sky.

Slyvia Plath

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as each year goes by I feel more and more lost and also more and more like myself