❝ And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long. ❞
— Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath —
❝ I take much pleasure in being alone, but there is also a strange warm grace in not being alone. ❞
— Charles Bukowski —
Phosphenes n. the stars and colors you see when you rub your eyes.
*tries to open bag of chips quietly at funeral*
*meets u at a party* small talk is for posers, rate yr current level of existential dread from 1 to 10, let’s be emotionaly intimate forever starting now