I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig-tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.
~ The Bell Jar, Sylvia Plath
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⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙⋆⁺₊⋆ Feels like sugar in me ⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙⋆⁺₊⋆
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I am back on my artsy anecdotal shit again.
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Delve into the Enigmatic World of Markus Schinwald’s ‘Gemini’ Shoes - A Contemporary Exploration of Identity and Duality
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I do not have any wholesome memory of my mother and I except for the memory of her doing my makeup for a dance recital when I was little.
I cried because I hated putting makeup on and she poked my eye with mascara.
I don't remember when she ever touched me tenderly as a child.
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IG/Twitter: @primhtx
https://primhtx.bandcamp.com
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This is me if you even care
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Original Xenomorph Suit - by H.R. Giger, 1978
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Silent Hills (P.T.)
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I need to leave
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Kevin Shields & Bilinda Butcher of My Bloody Valentine, photographer unlisted.
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