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It is very important never to make the correct amount of food for a single serving, but not enough for leftovers. Then you get to feel utterly alone in the world, abandoned, despised and disgraced. Unloved too, if you must.

They're telling you "it's fine" "it doesn't matter" "all is well" but next time you see them they're reading The Brothers Karamazov with a strange glimmer to their eyes.

Camus effortlessly conveys how difficult it sometimes is to say anything to anyone, except to the someone we know we can always turn to

No, it was really thoughtful of you to come dressed as shadow of your self after deciding to voluntarily deprive yourself of a balanced, nutritious breakfast. Well done.

How it feels to ruin an enthusiastic deposition of information on a topic you are disgustingly overeducated on after stammering and stuttering

"There's still time" I mumble to myself, remembering it took Proust 10 years to finish the first volume of In Search of Lost Time, “I can still do it” I stammer.

Thinking is so good for you. So fruitful, so healthy. Don’t listen to what anyone says. You are a philosopher. The tree of knowledge grew from out your pocket. Think think think.

A great wave of melancholy washed over me after I read this and I have never quite recovered

the brothers karamazov as perfumes: a lil thread

How humiliating to just want. I want. I desire. I don’t know what I want, all I know is that I want, that I am wanting. So embarrassing.

Passionately embracing my book before bed

Forcing myself to go outside whilst it's raining: This is so Wuthering Heights. Fantastic. I am a gothic heroine.

Too sweet? What's next? Too much love? Too much cherishment? An adoration induced aneurism? Should we all stew in bitterness and malice?

It's really very important that your quietness conceals a secret unspoken fervour

I bring a kind of 'incapable of shutting up for the next five minutes after having not spoken to another human soul for the last five working days' to the function that most find deeply vexatious.

Letting the melancholy wrack my body after casually affirming I feel "slightly off"

Yes sweetheart, you're the only one who was written by Dostoevsky. Now rest your miserable little head on me so I can offer you some nourishing soup. Now.

Frown lines? Oh no, these are the little kisses left by years of profound philosophical thought.

I would like to hope that this passage of Proust's will never perish in me

I don't need a little kiss. I need someone to descend from the heavens to kindly finish the food I couldn't quite manage. Though a little kiss would be nice, perhaps.