I wanted to say
nagging of this man
https://ngl.link/scorpiongrasses
this flickering chaos
deserted throat again
Fate brings people together but destiny keeps them apart
Functioning on sheer will and delusional reels
"You lunatic, you're mad."
"Then why will you not bend to me and be mad with me?"
"Don't look at me like that," Scarlett said.
"It doesn't work on me."
"That's why it's so fun."
Voids cannot be filled, they're fed
I have a new dream: I'd like to be neatly folded, set aside in a slant of light, and allowed to collect dust.
James, I realize, makes me feel like I can rest.
I liked it better when she was actively trying to murder me. I liked it better before I made her cry. Hell, I could've sworn she used to talk more.And she never used to look at me like this, like a cat when it's comfortable.Softly blinking, sleepy eyes. I don't like it. It's freaking me out. I need her to try to stab me or something, and soon. Really soon.
She's got these soft, grayish eyes I don't know how to describe. It's not even about her eyes, really. It's not the color or the shape. It's more about the way she looks at me, like I'm brand-new, like each time she sees me is the first time, like it blows her mind. I feel it when we make eye contact the way she sort of stills, like she's been stunned. She doesn't look at me a lot, but when she does it's like driving a hot knife through my chest. Most of the time I feel like she's trying not to look at me.
His eyes are a kaleidoscope of blues; like the sea, at turns tranquil and turbulent. Right now he's unhurried and easy in his body. I have a strange thought: I wish I could gather up his calm and pull it over me, sleep beneath it as if it were a blanket.
There's a rage that lives inside me I've never been able to kill. A rage that lives buried, like magma, miles beneath still waters. The rage of a child still too young to fight the monsters when they came calling.
~Watch me
It strikes me, as I observe him, that James lives in his skin without self-consciousness, comfortable despite the violent scars on his body, despite knowing he's being watched. This fact inspires in me a voracious envy I'm helpless to suppress.
Nothing was more devastating to The Reestablishment than the revolution that led to their downfall. It makes sense then that all efforts to feed the insatiable, chemical mind of Klaus have been in pursuit of a program designed to generate the voluntary servitude of the masses, I can see it now, the usage scenarios multiplying. It's simple logic: if we believe our choices are our own if we do not know we are being bent into obeisance we will not be tempted to revolt. The ultimate goal of synthetic intelligence, then, is the obliteration of organic intelligence.
The eradication of resistance.
Love and paranoia are quite fond of each other, habitually mingling into a suffocating protection.
"How can I hate his anger when I know so well where it comes from."
The voice in your head which tell you to cut your wrists, or take handful of pills or jump from a height, that voice never shouts. It only whispers.
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