I made this into a song once

I didn't like it


the words, they did sink
across your murky waters and
I know that your ears
can't hear from all the bleeding
from your brain, oh it drips, make you slip.

and laced with my fingers
the liquid poison punctuation
like lines from a book
you never bothered to peruse
hemorrhaging lies
across the border of your mind

crashing sounds from the atmosphere
the cigarette streams that you fear
the end you love is coming near
with these new city crimes...

fucking with the prototype.

please excuse these little streams of consciousness that my brain spews from time to time

I'm so in love

with the agony that is Louis Faurer's under appreciation.

I want to embody that type of melancholy artistry;
that's the type of photographer I'd give my life to be.

a tragic, yet intriguingly beautiful aspect about artists is the ones that do not live to see recognition
even more tragic, intriguing, and beautiful is the ones who die with their talent yet continue to lack proper appreciation.



the heartbreaking thing is that I have the cynicism, just not the motivation.

I'm having trouble finding any motivation nowadays.

oh, the beauty

that is georgia font.
so aesthetically pleasing..