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“and i think mine is this: a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs.”
there’s something so excellent about the idea of disappearing to some abandoned lighthouse placed on a misty cliff, roiling ocean waves crashing against jagged rocks metres below, evergreen trees slowly fading into slippery boulders and greyish sand, a tiny rowboat rocking back and forth on a stormy, wild, unrelenting sea. an oil lantern in a weathered hand, isolation and solitude giving way to a pleasant state of mind that, while utterly bizarre, is still wonderful in its own way. humming sea shanties you heard from some mad old sailor years ago under your breath, the lyrics long forgotten but the tune still wandering in circles around in the back of your mind, your voice hoarse from disuse. homoerotic internal monologues playing out dramatically in your thoughts, for you have spent far too long in your loneliness and now you have come to romanticise your life just a tad too much, though there really isn’t much wrong with that at all. it would be a life of warm herbal tea, of thunderstorms and folk music, of cosy knit sweaters, of everlasting nights and gloomy days, of faded photographs of those lost at sea, of crying and laughing and smiling and breathing in the salty air, filling your lungs with life. i long for a life of solitude. blackheartxbiohazards
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