then the feeling moves on. it does not collapse; it is not whisked away. it simply moves on, like a train that stops at a small country station, stands for a while, and then continues out of sight. - michael cunningham, the hours
we’re literally floating on a tiny planet in fucking space why are we surrounded by hatred and misery. why can’t everyone just calm the fuck down and lay on some grass. the sun is a GIANT BURNING ORB why does money exist. fuck everything
