Ask me things, I am bored.
“Don't cry, I'm sorry to have deceived you so much, but that's how life is.”
The street light filters through the blinds and now I live by the train tracks so the blaring melancholy thunder of its passing wakes me at noon and 3 am. It is so silent here. This house does not creak and moan. The winter is a freezing, sunny, 70 degrees. I am living in a ts elliot poem.
Talk to me
written by Unknown (via noirdunuit)
A little sickness to wear on your sleeves since there are no more vivid fantasies of dying in bathtubs with their rose pink water or sitting on railroad tracks waiting for the thunder. I have no illusions anymore. I do not hope for a better life or a better future. If my legacy is anything please let it be that I let one person know that survival is sometimes a grand accomplishment. Sometimes breathing for the next hour, despite aches and pains, is worth it. I have no illusions about happy endings. They do not exist; a ending is simply where you decided to stop writing.
also use headphones; not parent or child appropriate.
I wrote this story a couple years back but now I can’t find it anywhere this is some bullshit