It’s pretty sweet when the mess is just a manically imagined replication inside of their heads. When they’ve nurtured utter ignorance and bliss and stayed with the weight of never ending battle of brain and mind anyway.
She finds it all to’ve been — “bloody damn well ALL OF IT sortA fucKING worth it, as her signing off eyes realise their need for (UTTER) sleep JUST to create another imaginary date with Dostoyevsky, eventually… maybe… NOT, actually.” They won’t let the better of themselves win this time, won’t even walk with me if they want to. She’s
Aimed HERSELF AND HER DeaRlY DeRangeD… in literallyA Million misfiring dIreCtioNs of OCD MinD and stILL remained mesmerised AND MAIMED: inside of a crippled state of ChaOs refurbished to become but A Well-wisher’s Dream. A mile-wide scream(!!)
