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Last year, the moment Daphne took out her Moleskine, I grabbed it from her pretty little hands and buried my nose in between those lovely pages.
I molested the book with my cheeks, a moment she found quite disturbing and took a picture (but I can't find it because she deleted her Facebook a while back).

Last week, I splurged on a Moleskine and a Hundertwasser book (which is OK, because it was on 20% discount).
No, I don't molest my Moleskine in private... heh heh. Of course not.

I don't care about what people say about Moleskine's pretentious hipster owners, I love the paper. It's so smooth and off white.
LUH IT. LUHHH IT.



I let those feelings haunt me, they control me, but tonight I'm letting go
you're more then just a photo album, you're more than what some people let you know
and if we ever make it home, I'll tell you all the things that shaped me thus;
something forged in a phonebox but lost in a restaurant we've got so much to discuss

I like the part he wears the jacket front side front (2:35), makes me feel lonely. I want to swallow someone whole, too.

It's been almost 2 months, how do you tell your parents that you think nothing, absolutely nothing matters anymore, and that everyday you wake up in hopes of dying?
Hormones, hormones, it's not the bloody hormones.
It's all in the head, I'm trying to tell myself that, that I can be cured of this by myself.
I'm so desperate now, so desperate.