everything has gone to shit my mind is dead i have no intellectual capacity anymore im toxic and unnecessary and disposable

goodbye

i want to become a ginsberg poem

i feel like no matter how badly i fuck up, i will always find some old musician who fucked up more and still made it through

all rothkos look basically the same

somebody explain to me why im supposed to find them intriguing

i love woolf and benjamin and wittgenstein and dostoievski

if david bowie got through the 70s, i can finish this semester

what a good day to listen to kate bush on repeat and feel a bit sad

“original content” is an euphemism

my friends dont like me and im lonelyy and im gonna die at 40 and i have class this monday and in terrified