You're the kind of monster that doesn't wait for the sheets to hit my skin, before you crawl out from under my bed. The circus red tips of the blossoms you spin are crushing and deadly and poison against the little pearls of wisdom you pretend. Listless in a sleep, purple hearts and softly weeping, baby breath against the truly white night, a little lonely only wandering then. I want to make you feel the pull. Tight little fists against your chest, but barely a thump to you. I'm kind of begging here, on my new knees, to be a something in your sleep that doesn't let you go.
I can't stop watching this clip. I love the music and the edits on this. perfect timing and sequencing and makes me want to make some kick ass video installations. fuck this is lovely.
It was completely fruitless to quarrel with the world, whereas the quarrel with oneself was occasionally fruitful and always, she had to admit, interesting. -Soren Kierkegaard