This is all a crumbled up, missing pieces, work of some kind. Work of art. I don’t want to organize, I don’t want to change any of it. I want to keep as it is. If messy, so be it. If perfect, so be it. But nothing is perfect. This isn’t perfect. We are the worst critics, ourselves of our own work. But I just know that these entries will be useful for coming back to later on, I’m just doing it because I know. I don’t know. But I do. You know?
Just, an extra notepad. That will probably drive me to sanity, because I'm already not feeling it. But who's watching anyway? I seriously pull bullshit out of nowhere.
And those are the words.
“Solitude gives birth to the original in us, to beauty unfamiliar and perilous - to poetry. But it also gives birth to the opposite: to the perverse, the illicit, the absurd.”
Just, an extra notepad. That will probably drive me to sanity, because I'm already not feeling it. But who's watching anyway? I seriously pull bullshit out of nowhere.
And those are the words.
“Solitude gives birth to the original in us, to beauty unfamiliar and perilous - to poetry. But it also gives birth to the opposite: to the perverse, the illicit, the absurd.”
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