— Sylvia Plath

"mother?" i call for her until my throat is scratched and dry, my voice is reduced to a pathetic rasp, and all i taste is the blood she regrets giving me.

ce fatras de confidences que l’on raconte sans même y croire.

ㅤ mιddᥣᥱ of thᥱ ᥒιght. 𝗝𝗢𝗛𝗔𝗡𝗡𝗘 𝓈𝑜𝒻𝒾𝒶 𝗕𝗨𝗖𝗞𝗘𝗡𝗠𝗘𝗜𝗘𝗥 ꧙꧙꧙꧙꧙꧙ 🍓🪩📞⭐️ 𝟭, 𝟮, 𝟯, 𝟰 𝘀𝘂𝗿 𝗹𝗲 𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗱𝗲𝘀 𝗱𝗼𝗶𝗴𝘁𝘀.

« Tout n’est pas perdu, mais tout s’est senti périr. » (Valéry)

and when we find out what's wrong with me, could you tell me how i'm right for you?

— Franz Kafka

i'm learning to become all the space i need. i laughed today. for a second i was unhaunted. i was the sun， not light from some dead star. i was before. i am a house swollen with the dead， but still a home.

kafka diary entry of the day

i desire violently and i wait.

in another universe， my window is open and i'm laying on the floor. i am twelve years old. nothing bad has happened to me yet.

« Si grand soit-il, un destin tourne en rond dans son propre univers. » (Tardieu)

— quiet solitude.

🍃