thoughts slithering through the brain like scalding silver serpents..
when you think too much, do you miss out on life..?
since words can't begin to express what you mean, how are people supposed to understand each other? how can you even convey what you feel when description is just a grey blob of word-matter spilt onto the page?

"what a wee little part of a person's life are his acts and his words. His real life is led in his head and is known to none but himself.."
Shouldn't that be saddening? Whatever.

Sleep smells good.


(un tableau de klimt)