AND JUST—

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.

Cupid & Psyche by Jacob Matham (1607)

late nights in the country house

she lives in the poetry she cannot write

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

“it’s starting to smell like pumpkin spice!”

“it’s starting to smell like scary movies!”

no.

it’s starting to smell like, the snow in the mountains was melting and bunny had been dead for several weeks before we came to realize the gravity of our situation.

i consume too much caffeine, don’t sleep enough and don’t read enough.

also i have to spend more time in nature.

i need to touch grass so i can feel alive.

It's all about the smallest things. The smell of coffee and the warm feeling, when the sunshine touches your skin while it's freezing. Simple.

I’m at the “we’ll see” stage in my life. With everything and everyone. We will see.

anarchism and god complex