My uncle passed away last week and father has left for hong kong, I wish i could hide myself inside his suitcase.

What I have been up to the past weekend

1. creating my own version of winter inside my bedroom, doing distribution and hypothesis testing practices
2. listening to kitsune noir mixtapes on speakers stolen from my brother
3. eating my weight in almonds and raisins while doing the above
4. watched up in the air and the beat that my heart skipped

I went to swim today! My hair smells of chlorine, how long have I not smelled chlorine? I am looking forward to no longer looking pale and ill with rings around my eyes after tomorrow

The pages on my Dickison text have been stained with coffee, spilled from the tumblr inside my bag.
I never realised the significance of her work until a few weeks ago. Maybe if I tried hard enough I can start passing my literature essays

928
The Heart has narrow Banks
It measures like the Sea
In mighty - unremiting Bass
And Blue Monotony

Till Hurricane bisect
And as itself discerns
Its insufficient Area
The Heart convulsive learns

That Calm is but a Wall
Of unattempted Gauze
An instant's Push demolishes
A Questioning - dissolves.

i need to remember to listen to these

dinosaur feathers
wild nothing
male bonding

"I used to think I couldn’t write without a scotch and a cigarette and one of the scariest things about quitting one then the other was the idea that I wouldn’t be able to write. Well, I quit and I write. That’s more about addiction than about writing. Then I thought I couldn’t write without my dog nearby, but my dog passed away and I still write. One day this summer I wrote in a room full of people in bathing suits cooking bacon. Not for long, though. How to get out of bed and get my coffee without waking up too much before I start writing is a big deal for me. I don’t like to eat until I’m incredibly hungry when I’m writing. I don’t write with music, but I don’t mind ambient sound. I like to be near a window with not a lot going on outside. My current study has a window that is completely filled with hedge and sometimes birds poke around in it. Perfect.

I don’t write every day. I wait until I can’t bear it and then I write, or I write because I can’t wait to write, or I write because there are nuts I want to crack. I was a kid who made ice cream last. I don’t believe in letting writing time be agony. I don’t believe in letting insomnia get me, either. I get up or I take a pill, no thrashing around. The bed needs to be a beautiful place, and the desk does, too. If writing is some kind of agony, I should get over myself and do something nice for the neighborhood. I do ritualize everything, though. I need to because of whatever kind of brain I have. So whatever my writing situation is, I ritualize it, I’m just learning that I can make a ritual out of anything, and it’s not the ritual so much as the ritualizing: making some kind of rhythm in a way that makes something some kind of sacred.."

lucy corin, from royal quiet deluxe.

a happy place

t.h. murphy

this is the sea i miss

cha.

miss v