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Hieu Minh Nguyen, from This Way to The Sugar: Poems; "Buffet Etiquette"

[Text ID: My house is a silent film. My house is infested with subtitles. ::: That's all. That's all. I have nothing else to say.]

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the black saint & the sinner lady & the dead & the truth, morgan parker // the truth the dead know, anne sexton.

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I like to fuck around and waste time for at least ~6-10 hours per day, and let me tell you, that really puts some pressure on your schedule. you have no idea how busy I am

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Me vibing to songs that are in a language that I don't speak a single word of:

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“In certain areas of my life, I actively seek out solitude. Especially for someone in my line of work, solitude is, more or less, an inevitable circumstance. Sometimes, however, this sense of isolation, like acid spilling out of a bottle, can unconsciously eat away at a person’s heart and dissolve it. You could see it, too, as a kind of double-edged sword. It protects me, but at the same time steadily cuts away at me from the inside.”

— Haruki Murakami, What I Talk About When I Talk About Running

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“Have you ever noticed when you’re tired, your fingers don’t grip things as tightly as they should? That things slip through them more often than you wish? I feel as though I am those fingers and life is slipping through me.”

— Kelsey Danielle, Life And Other Things (via violentwavesofemotion)

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i like tumblr bc u all know So Much and Absolutely Nothing about me simultaneously

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A

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Franz Kafka, The Diaries of Franz Kafka: 1914-1923

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I guess I’ve learned to direct my anger towards myself, because if I break things or tell people how I feel they just get mad at me. If I break myself no one gives a shit.

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"I believe in poems as I do haunted houses. We say, someone must have died here."

Rosa Alcalá, Voice: An Essay

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Grief Lessons, Anne Carson

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“i cry at night over things that i can’t control, and i sleep next to my phone waiting for texts that will never arrive and phone calls that i can’t predict”

— 1:47 (love is a bitch)

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In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun.

- The Song Of Achilles, Madeline Miller

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