"with mother finally *****, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger on the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination—"
-allen ginsberg, "Howl"
this is mostly shit that has to do with words/literature/me complaining as eloquently as possible. i don't really take myself seriously as a blogger [yet] though, so don't expect those to be the limits.
