...and then a hand, you will never know whose hand, pulls down the shade. And there you are, outside. And there I was, outside.

female, 20, Berlin, someone who is not all of one piece, but rather someone who is made up of shreds and patches and old cogwheels held together with pieces of rusty barbed wire and spit and bits of string, like most of us.

You’re a shelf of books with out the pages, a wealth of thoughts locked up in cages. So if blood runs through your veins, don’t you suppose it’s such a waste to be composed in such a way?

(they cheer me up, ok?)

my stuff

meep: iDon'tLikeYourTurtlePuppet