I Would Love To Be Able To See The Moon Through The Eyes Of Some Human From Thousands Of Years Ago. Like,

me: finds intelligence hot

also me: unconditionally and furiously despises anyone who is even slightly better than me at anything

Im surviving solely off of books, coffee and maladaptive daydreaming

an incomplete collection of tweets i consider to be short poems

hot girls don't know their lefts and rights

i was born in the wrong era. i was supposed to live in the 80s. the 1880s. i was destined to be some rich, idle, ill-fated protagonist of a victorian gothic novel and smoke cigarettes and wear rich fabrics and carry a cane with a carved top and write long, rambling letters in an illegible font to some close friend i may or may not be utterly infatued by and drink red wine at lavish dinners every other night and discuss philosophy and hedonism and sprawl dramatically across chaise longues and and-

"self-care," i whisper to myself for the fifth that day as i create a new pinterest board to save my silly little pictures to instead of acknowledging the ever-growing pile of revision looming on my consciousness

i find it so charming that so many ancient civilisations - if not most of them - believed in gods of some sort. like, the world was so inexplicably incredible that, to them, it could be the work of nothing but the divine.

am i more productive at nighttime or am i so choked with responsibility and duty during the day that my free time is now only ever available to me when in exchange for a sacrifice of tomorrow's wellbeing? (because apparently revenge nighttime procrastination is an actual thing??)

hot girls be like 'my comfort characters 🤗💐💕' then name the most deranged and psychopathic dredges of humanity who have never felt an ounce of comfort in their life

ink-stained fingers, crumpled sheets of unfinished poetry, withered roses, lipstick on the rim of a coffee cup, dark chocolate, forgotten gods, starless nights, red candles, bloody knees, ribbons in hair