sometimes, like now, i think of things i can only understand as the most intense nothing, maybe like Donne. questions and answers to questions riddled with even more questions. such incoherence can only amount to nothing, yet all this must mean something.

i hope you'd see me,/ i hope you'd understand/ my cruel ambitions/ hardly justified

inertia and immolation [was it plath who stuck herself into a fireplace?]. what will you do tomorrow or what wont you? you could never be happy with me because i would never tell you everything and i will never be happy with you because i dont know what i want. this is so Hours, this is so me-treading-my-circle. spiralling again.

all this is so tasteless and bland it's disgusting