the worse feeling about living in your childhood house is that you never felt like a member of the family, always like a guest that was destined to leave and never stay and everyone reminds you of that
“I was written by a man.” “I was written by a woman.” That’s cute. I was written by Kafka. My life is a horrific labyrinth of confusion, misfortune, existential dread, and chronic self-loathing.
letters to milena by franz kafka // camouflage by ron hicks // the golden notebook by doris lessing // ? // a letter to galatea kazantzaki by nikos kazantzakis
?// the opposite of a haunting is something very lonely, katie maria (by @heavensghost )// @smokedsugar// @mango-season// virgin suicides (1999)// aristotle and dante discover the secrets of the universe, benjamin alire sáenz//empty bed, cavetown// @princesskuragina// to die for, carol lee// anna haifisch// amy dunne// look who’s inside again, bo burnham// how’d your parents die again, fatima asghar// richey edwards
