it is profusely terrifying that in just eleven months from now i will be thrown into the wild.

it's the final stretch, one last month that makes or breaks everything. i'm no stranger to this type of pressure. somehow i always end up...

A couple of small breakthroughs stalled the kiss of death, and slowly I crawled out of my grave. Emotions started coming back to me.

I play dead for others to nurse me back to life. It’s a worthless defense that is healthy for nobody.

i used to think i could fly. now i know better. are you ready to catch me?

When the time comes, I’ll probably become capitalism’s slut... you can’t live, laugh, love your way to your first million

Music has the potential to be so much more than just a space filler. The right song at the right moment can make it so much more memorable.

Dark bathroom, bloodshot eyes, fully clothed in a scalding bathtub, syringe in hand, wrist facing heaven.

You were my Cinderella, disappeared at two, but left no glass slippers.

So what if I'm crazy, the best people are?

Am I content with blank, lifeless Polaroids or do I want a chance to capture pretty pictures?

What I want is this: to be awoken at midnight by a roaring thunderstorm.

This year there's this notion of "last." That it's my last chance to experience everything for a first time. It's bittersweet.

another new year, another crisis.

the rain drops, trickling down the windows of each car. the rain, falling from the sky. like how i fell for you.

if i give up now, what will i have done? what will i have accomplished?

if you exist, please come and stay forever.

two days ago, i dreamed a dream.