hesitating opening my kindle and getting sucked into a book

because the charger lives in California. I bet he won’t think to pack one for me. figures.

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just now going out for the fag

already 29 minutes behind schedule

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at 4 am I’m to put my gloves and sweater back on and go out for a fag with a piping hot cup of freshly pressed coffee

at 5 am I’m to take a shower and get dressed for my busy day

at 6 am I’m to walk to Starbucks with my book in hand, treat myself to my last northwest Pumpkin Spice Latte for a week, and mentally prepare myself for a while. (and make a bigger dent in The Picture of Dorian Gray which I’m reading for the first time and adoring.)

at 9 am I’m to walk down the block to Wells Fargo and deposit my trip money into my empty bank account (32 cents, to be more precise)

at 9:15 I’m to walk to the nearest bus stop and catch the bus to the nearest mall (which I detest). there, I’ll return this loose-fitting pair of jeans and maybe pick up a pair of combat boots if I’m feeling generous to myself.

at 11 am or so, I’m to catch the bus back home and start to get shit done

at noon, after allowing myself some personal time to get my shit together after an all-nighter like this, I’ll begin to sort through my clothes and decide which I want to pack and which need to be washed.

at 12:30 I’m to start laundry and collect all of the other things I need to pack (his gift, makeup, toiletries, books, shoes, etc)

at 1, I’m to fill my purse with all of the little things that are better placed in there

at 1:20, I’m to sit down and spend some time updating my currently incredibly sparse iPod so I can entertain myself during airport wait time and through my flight.

at 2, I’m to fold clothes, pack them perfectly, and assure myself that I’ve gotten everything I need.

after that, I’m to collapse in an exhausted heap on my bed and sleep until I need to get up tomorrow morning and prepare my physical being for my trip. shaving for the first time in a month, doing my makeup all pretty, and all of the other things I do for him, even though I needn’t do any of them.

sounds like a full day. I’m anxious for it to get started. I’m bored and afraid I’ll fall asleep just sitting here. 


my brain houses thousands of ridiculous fantasies. fantasies of me ceasing to use the word “ridiculous,” fantasies of floating castles and doors with large, black hinges. but the most absurd of them all is this:

someday he confesses. he confesses that he says my name to me on purpose because he wants to sway my affections. he confesses his adoration, specifically the adoration he’s always had and never really fully let go of. i fantasize about him telling me. about him saying the words i fantasize about him thinking. i want him to grab me and try to physically persuade me, i want him to look at me the way he knows how to, the perfect, sterling, uninhibited way he knows so well.

just to have me turn him away.
just so i can be the one inducing tears in our torrential partnership.
just so i can breathe, “no, you’re not what i want anymore.” 

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living rooms: perched box by nobuhito mori architecturedisplayed on archiphile | facebook | twitter


living rooms: perched box by nobuhito mori architecture
displayed on archiphile | facebook | twitter

Updating from my phone means I cannot write a normal text post, it must be a quote. Oblivion tonight, as I have suddenly lost interest in communicating with the world. Or no one.

headphones, top volume, new scholars album, basement, cigarettes, bowl to smoke, fuck yes life

(by Aëla Labbé)
A Boy and Death / 2011 (by Nynewe)

A Boy and Death / 2011 (by Nynewe)