angel no. ₄4 ⁴

something genuinely insane about going somewhere and getting to feel “i had some of the worst years of my life here” and “i was loved here, once” simultaneously.

obsessed with mass market paperbacks. their pleasing rectangular proportions. how they fit badly in a hoodie pocket so you can drag them around everywhere with you like a temporary little buddy. the way they fit in your hand because they're MADE for human hands and not as bookshelf decoration. the way the pages feel when you riffle them gently with your thumb. How pristine and crisp they look when you get them and how creased and folded they look when you're done, even if you try to be nice to them. how that wear is okay, how that's correct actually, because they're made with the philosophy that books aren't meant to be PRETTY, they're meant to be read. that little ripple new ones get on the left side from where you hold them when you're reading, the way the ripple only goes as far as you've read, because u change stories by reading as they are changing you. how you can find thousands of these creased and folded and loved little dudes in every thrift store and used book shop and neighborhood library and you can instantly see the ones that someone carried around in a backpack for weeks or read to pieces or gave up on halfway through because they wear being read like fresh snow wears footprints. I love these poorly made, subpar little rectangles so much. truly the people's books.

Speak to older ppl and u will learn things that would’ve taken u 5 years to figure out by yourself. Building friendships with older people is the best thing I ever did. Someone tenderly telling u how to navigate the world is a beautiful thing. This post was inspired by a new chatbot created by scientists that stimulates an older version of u and shares its pearls of wisdom. Young people should talk and consciously listen 2 older people so they can navigate this world w a little more ease. As if artificial intelligence can educate the next generation. Nothing better than a convo w someone over a cup of tea.

so it’s a wednesday night in july and you’re at home and you’ve showered and you’ve masturbated and you’ve gnawed at the inside of your mouth and you’ve eaten and washed the dishes and fixed a corner of the fitted sheet on your bed and texted your grandmother and thought positive thoughts and still the feeling comes. what then

There's something gloriously obscene about movies. The idea of spending a hundred million dollars and several lifetimes to create a single work of art that's not very good

I’m fine

I need divine intervention