Dreams, memories, the sacred—they are all alike in that they are beyond our grasp. Once we are even marginally separated from what we can touch, the object is sanctified; it acquires the beauty of the unattainable, the quality of the miraculous. Everything, really, has this quality of sacredness, but we can desecrate it at a touch. How strange man is! His touch defiles and yet he contains the source of miracles.
would like to formally apologize to my friends for the times when i get really quiet and moody and stare off into space and don’t join in in the conversation i love all of you i’m sorry i can be a downer sometimes
Sometimes I really don’t feel like existing like not in a suicidal way but I just wish there was a way of pausing life so that I could sleep for a few weeks and figure some stuff out and then not have to feel guilty for missing loads of stuff because really no time had passed at all