"Ah! Plût au ciel que votre âme, comme la mienne..." Je me languis déjà de la personne qui entendra ces mots, en murmures brûlantes contre leur peau, je le dis et je le maintien, je me languis de celui qui sera mien.

Summer should come faster, I've had enough of people, I've already reached the point of the year in which all I want to do is self isolate for a month straight.

J'ai une aversion terrible pour les chrétiens.

"Shostakovich string quartet No.8 Op.110" has to be one of my absolute favourite classical compositions. It perfectly depicts an immense loss, that no words could ever make a perceiver understand. A music accurate enough to make you thrive and keep you going on just the expression, and concretizing of feelings you get from it. At last, words were not needed. Words that one once cherished as his biggest ally. Words that were his only way of getting his feelings out and into the world. Were now, and after his immense loss, ridiculised and lost. Wasted. He feels gutted. Everything he said, everything he put his whole person into, turned out to still be insufficient. In a perceiver's eyes, at least. Humans, have always been naturally cruel, sickeningly superficial, all of that in exchange of a bit of ephemeral joy, that quickly ran cold and always brought them back to the miserable being they forever remain.

Douleur est forte lorsque amour fut beau.

"Laissez moi mon erreur, j'aime il faut que j'espère."

Like the sheep, you follow. Like the sheep, you will end. In the abyss of macabre ravines.