musings

I find myself craving the simplicity of incoherence, wishing to retreat into a state of brazen, youthful, unapologetic existence, where I am allowed expression without the constraints of language.

Not only is art born from a man’s open heart, Munch says, but is the heart’s blood itself.

Remember the willow tree, for it may seem dull after watching so many dazzling iterations of it spawn from our human desire to imitate, but its beauty and love remains, waiting for you to come home

It had escaped my notice, by some miracle, that People always seem to be salivating over absurdist fiction without any mention of female writers.

I definitely need a diary, and I can’t write quite fast enough by hand to make paper worth much, so here my musings shall lay to rest.