I Have No Thoughts. Nothing Is Real Except The Start Of Marigold

i have no thoughts. nothing is real except the start of marigold

i hate it when i cant even write a poem about something because its too obvious. like in the airbnb i was at i guess it used to be a kids room cause you could see the imprint of one little glow in the dark star that had been missed and painted over in landlord white. like that's a poem already what's the point

John Martin, Sadak in Search of the Waters of Oblivion (1812) // the Mountain Goats, Against Pollution (2004)

alright i got enough time i can now bombard fics i like with comments

“Dickens told me,” Dostoyevsky recalled in a letter written years later, “that all the good, simple people in his novels … are what he wanted to have been, and his villains were what he was (or rather, what he found in himself), his cruelty, his attacks of causeless enmity towards those who were helpless and looked to him for comfort, his shrinking from those whom he ought to love… . There were two people in him, he told me: one who feels as he ought to feel and one who feels the opposite. From the one who feels the opposite I make my evil characters, from the one who feels as a man ought to feel, I try to live my life.”

― Fyodor Dostoevsky, Letters of Fyodor Dostoevsky to his family and friends