all my bad thoughts are yours.
complemental turmoil_
Inspiration is something to be valued: even more precious in the bleakest seasons of the horizon.
Sometimes the Earth stays still, the ocean’s tides cease to exist, the soul goes silent and every thought is an echo of a worn-out memory.
The cigarette lights itself to the warm encounter with the lips, turning to ashes, unnoticed, and words escape me once more. Perhaps love cannot exist without hurt, and perhaps hurt is not genuine without love. Whatever the case may be, I refuse both love and hurt.
So the Earth stays still, a tideless ocean makes my soul go quiet, simply echoing my thoughts… these worn-out memories.
[b. skepis]
por que que tu não pergunta pra ela, ou pra ele? afinal, não é a minha vida.
not interested.
good job.
if i weren’t i wouldn’t be a good writer.
