i've attained a state of inward distance in which it's hard to remember yesterday or to believe that the self who lives in me day after day really belongs to me. my usual emotions, my regularly irregular habits, my conversations with others... all of this seem like things i've read somewhere, like inert pages of a published biography, details from some novel, or in one of the middle chapters we read while thinking about something else.

thank you james spader for your commitment to being in freaky ass movies

the devil couldn't reach me so instead he made sure i have a hard time expressing my emotions and thoughts

if you took a picture of my brain this is what it would look like

i don't think people love me. they love versions of me i have spun for them, versions of me they have construed in their minds. the easy versions of me, the easy parts of me to love.

Häxan, 1922

poor little hysterical witch!

isn't it funny? how the cold numbs everything but grief. if we could light up the room with pain, we'd be such a glorious fire.