(via bryarly)157 notes
welcome to my little corner of madness
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This is so fucking self-indulgent.0 notes
And the crayons have died.0 notes
I know I’m being unreasonable, but throwing my pencils at the door is extremely satisfying.
Somebody keep me away from the crayons.0 notes
Oh, tumblr, thou art lithe and -
actually, let me go make some tea0 notes
- Milord, by Edith Piaf.0 notes
Is there a word for the paralysing loneliness that comes from realising that no matter how much you share, how much you hint of what it feels like inside your head, you can never truly climb into someone else’s mind so that they might know you? Complètement, sans réserve?1 notes
Listening to Jean Ferrat.
It makes me long for my childhood, for a France long before I was born, a France that I will never know.
A France forgotten. Broken. Born again.
I feel nostalgic, of days past, of days to come, and for the person I might have become, had I stayed in France when I was little.
I wonder what she would think of my choices.
It’s a bittersweet feeling. It brings my life into sharp focus: I feel so grateful for the people and opportunities I’ve been trusted with, and I ache with loneliness for all the things I can never share, all the things I will never know.
I think it’s time to call this siesta quits and go back to jazz and mathematics.0 notes
I am cautiously optimistic.1 notes
Once upon a time, there was a spider named Bob,
Made of wool, and queen of all.
She lived in a box, she ate from a bowl, she had
Infinite power over
Her world. Yet Bob dreamt of travel, and music and
Glory and -
and soon it was late, and bob had dreamt