That was essentially the worst possible outcome of tonight's night class. Holy shit. I want something else. I'm not even sure what to call it anymore except I know it feels roomy and it's drenched in sunlight and it's weightless and I know it's not cheap. Probably not even real.

Writing:

"Often it is the only thing between you and impossibility.no drink, no woman's love, no wealth can match it.

nothing can save you except writing. It keeps the walls from failing. the hordes from closing in. It blasts the darkness.

Writing is the ultimate psychiatrist, the kindliest god of all the gods. Writing stalks death. It knows no quit. and writing laughs at itself, at pain.

it is the last expectation, the last explanation. that's what it is. "

-Bukowski

‎"It was my sword. I knew when the handle melted beneath my fingers and the blade shivered familiarly along my arm and into my past." - 50 Year Sword