At Night, I Like To Slide My Window Open An Inch And Breathe In The Air, Sipping It Up- It Tastes Like

St. Peter's Basilica.

yesterday i rearranged my at home office and i am obsessed with the final look | more on my instagram account @thomreads (for anything studies and books related)

My relationship with time is complicated. I either feel like four hours is two minutes or I feel like five minutes is twelve hours. Months don't make sense because some of them feel like they take four months and others don't feel like months at all. I could've sworn I was 16 eight years ago and I feel like I've been alive at least 74 years and this month doesn't feel like January because I'm still in the same mental state as I was in November.

Me on my way home from the store with fall decorations in the middle of August:

I have the sudden urge to just cut contact with everyone I know, and to become a mysterious person who everyone is curious about , but they dont know anything about me.

I want to be seen walking through the rain on a Thursday evening with my trenchcoat and purple scarf, headed to the bookshelf, where I can sit and look brooding while reading the many used books.

I want to then disappear, and no one sees me leave. I want to be a mystery. I want people to wonder, "who is that? And why are they here?"

I want the cliche kisses in photo booths. And the candid photos of me when I’m not looking. I want the week long road trips with the windows down and my feet up on the dash. I want hands clenched tight when we’re intimate. I want shared showers the morning after. I want breakfast in nothing but oversized t-shirts. I want tv show marathons with extra buttery popcorn and makeout breaks during commercials. I want “I love you"s and “you’re beautiful"s and my name blended in curse words while you moan. I want time and promise and happiness and intimacy.

caravaggio’s hands in various paintings 🌙

GREEK GODS AND GODDESSES HEAD STATUE VASE

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"To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all."

-Oscar Wilde