off the record ward

Then I felt like an adult, forced to live in the body of a child. Since, I feel like a child, privileged to live in the body of an adult. The zealot of seriousness in me, because it was already full-grown in the child, continues to think of reality as yet-to-be. Still sees a big space ahead, a far horizon. Is this the real world? I still ask myself that, forty years later ... as small children ask re-peatedly, in the course of a long, tiring journey, "Are we there yet?"

— Pilgrimage, Susan Sontag

خیلی دوست دارم درست حسابی و استتیک ژورنال کنم. بعد خوشگل بنویسم، استیکر بچسبونم و این کارا ولی ژورنالم همیشه انگار یکی چاقو زده به سرم، مغزمو پخش کرده روش.

also catherine deneuve is the final boss of unattainable beauty.💗

let's say this is the cinematic equivalent of finding a pearl in your soup.

"We'll do all that is forbidden." — Donkey Skin dir. Jacques Demy

نصف بیشتر این پروپلستاین‌های پرفورمتیو هم یه کلمه راجع به بلایی که سر زنان هرات اومده حرف نزدن و همینا هم یقه ما رو می‌گیرن اگه خدایی نکرده بین توییتامون هشتگ free palestine نباشه

and as my final act of love, I'll let you go, even if I have to drag my own heart behind me and teach it how to move on.

من از همه‌ی دوستام معذرت می‌خوام بابت این چند روز.

like bro you jealous of me fangirling?

so life actually gets better when a grown man with the emotional maturity of a fucking damp sock isn't buzzing around your head shitting on everything you like.

I love coming to my senses cause fuck you.

Gonna share some parts of it though occasionally

From those ruins, I began to build something wholly different, my own hanging gardens, coaxed from the rubble, tier upon tier of green. Jasmine tangled through a broken stone, ivy spilling over the fractured walls... It wasn't a citadel for war, but a sanctuary somewhere to wait, to breathe, until the air tasted clean again. The wreckage remained under the roots, I could feel it when I pressed my palms to the soil, a reminder of what had been, but it no longer dictated the shape of my days. — from the first draft of a story I’ll probably never publish anyway.

Writing, because murder is wrong.

forgive me peter please know that I tried to hold on to the days when you were mine but the woman who sits by the window has turned out the light