I had learned early to assume something dark and lethal hidden at the heart of anything I loved. When I couldn’t find it, I responded, bewildered and wary, in the only way I knew how: by planting it there myself.
This week on Tumblr:
It’s a metaphor. You’re a metaphor. I’m a metaphor. Your keybord is a metaphor. Everything is a metaphor. The universe is turning into one giant metaphor on a molecular scale. Run. It’s too late.
What happened, my dear Zero, is I beat the living shit out of a sniveling little runt called Pinky Bandinski. You should take a long look at his ugly mug this morning (sips water, smiles fondly). He’s actually become a dear friend.
I’m in love with this soundtrack
The Grand Budapest Hotel + symmetry
You see, there are still faint glimmers of civilization left in this barbaric slaughterhouse that was once known as humanity. Indeed that’s what we provide in our own modest, humble, insignificant… oh, fuck it.