From the Philippines.
Black and white pictures, European castles and the idea of world domination make me happy.
This blog and I are one and the same.
I don’t care how many libraries there are in the world, I still look for you, but I can’t find the right synonym for beautiful when other men touch me. I am searching for your plot lines. Your paper cuts were the first thing I was willing to bleed for in so long, but I’m not blaming you. I’m blaming me.
I was twenty-one at the time, about to turn twenty-two. No prospect of graduating soon, and yet no reason to quit school. Caught in the most curiously depressing circumstances. For months I’d been stuck, unable to take one step in any new direction. The world kept moving on; I alone was at a standstill. In the autumn, everything took a desolate cast, the colors swiftly fading before my eyes. The sunlight, the smell of the grass, the faintest patter of rain, everything got on my nerves. How many times did I dream of catching a train at night?