but now none of it matters because i can’t forgive myself for any of it, i can’t ever forgive myself for myself, and no amount of penance will ever take any of it back and my mouth feels hot with rotting food, and i just want to scream i just want to forget i want it all to stop or maybe i just need someone to hold me and say everything is ok, everything is ok but the very thought brings back images of the loves i’ve pushed away and the fear rises that maybe i’m doomed to be alone.
click; kristopher young
Walls black like black waters when they are heavy and seem to belong to other seas.
[M] December 3, 1992 (House of Leaves p.546)
.اذا آلمتك كلماتى يَومَــاً، فَ اعْلَمْ أنّكَ المقصــوُدْ
If I ever express my feelings one day, understand that everything I ever alluded to was in reference to you. - Unknown (via colour-me-curious)
She still drives me nuts. Just thinking of her now and I’m lost, lost in the smell of her, the way of her and everything she conjures up inside me, a mad rush of folly & oddly muted lusts, sensations sublimated faster than I can follow, into - oh hell I don’t know what into, I probably shouldn’t even be using a word like sublimate, but that’s beside the point, her hair reminding me of a shiny gold desert wind brazed in a hot August sun, hips curving like coastal norths, tits rising and falling beneath her blue sweatshirt the way an ocean will do long after the storm has passed.
(via fuckyeahhouseofleaves)
I stayed home and did drugs and tried not to count the days until I’d be away from everyone. There was nothing edgy about that. In fact, my life was the soft marshmallowy way of getting though this existence. I didn’t deal, I didn’t socialize, I didn’t try and I didn’t care. I had a plethora of pills to keep me company, and in the current state of America, so did everyone else.
The liquid rises to the rim and then by a fraction exceeds even this limit. Only it does not spill. It holds - a bulge of coffee arcing tragically over the china, preserved by the phyiscs of surface tension, rhyme to some unspeakable magic, though as everyone knows, coffee miracles never last long. The morning wake-up call wobbles, splits, and then abruptly slips over the edge, now a Nile of caffeine wending past glass and politics until there is nothing more than a brown blot on the morning paper.
(via fuckyeahhouseofleaves)
No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun — for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax — This won’t hurt.
hunter s. thompson
Always” that is a dreadful word. It makes me shudder when I hear it. Women are so fond of using it. They spoil every romance by trying to make it last for ever. It is a meaningless word, too.
Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
(via fuckingickyricky)
The pills were our hand grenades. Velvet blown aside with the release of just one tab. They got us in everywhere. Even if noses were already bloody with coke, lungs black with cannabis or throats dry with bourbon. X was still something else entirely, a spine shivering departure from the regular banquet, offering plenty of love-simulated bliss-bloated diversions.
p. 262 (via fuckyeahhouseofleaves)
He wanted to know what I had felt, and I replied that the most terrible part of the experience to me was that I hadn’t felt much of anything.
Kurt Vonnegut, Galapagos
(via fuckitbukowskiwasright)
Hey! Hey! Hey-Hey! Hay days gone by, bye-bye, gone way way away.
(via fuckyeahhouseofleaves)
The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men alone are quite capable of every wickedness.
Joseph Conrad (Heart of Darkness)
(via recordbug)
