a splitting headache from which the future's made

“The woods burned intense with red as fresh blood,”

I think a lot about how we as a culture have turned “forever” into the only acceptable definition of success.

oh my god, but what is this painting without the dinosaur?

Sometimes, I’m the mess. Sometimes, I’m the broom. On the hardest days, I have to be both.

some people just can’t date writers. there are some people who will be fascinated by the way you can string words together, how you find beauty in the girl who lost her hat to the wind at the park, how you hand write every letter and mark the sad parts with tears how you close the envelope with ink stained wrists. but there are some people who will look at you like you have lost your damn marbles. there are some people who will lose patience in your bedside lamp turning on and off late at night as you scribble words on a receipt. some people will trip over your crumbled papers and chewed pens with a sigh of annoyance. these people will take you by the wrists and say, “God dammit can’t you just drink the coffee without trying to write a love letter with the cream and sugar?” some people just can’t date writers. some people don’t deserve to.