I Don’t Want A Job I Want To Read Good Books And Drink Good Coffee And Get Kissed On The Neck

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.

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

nothing, null, hollow, hole

in my mind Henry finished the translation of Paradise Lost and Richard found it in the glove compartment of Henry's car after his death

Herakles, Euripides (tr. Tom Sleigh)

Entering my Henry Winter era (I have constant migraines and I want to commit crimes)

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

― Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Idiot

I want to be someone's muse, the object of someone's desires. I want to be something somebody thinks about all day. I want to be painted on a canvas by a painter, to be written in words by a poet. I want to be the inspiration for somebody's art.