I still have an insane love for books. Cats and books, that ALWAYS would make me happy. That, and the delicacy of writing correctly, the mania for putting accents, spaces, commas and periods correctly. The hobby of putting in a post something incoherent. Someone listened to Alexander Spence and his solo album "Oar"? And the delicacy of self-abuse to have supreme control over suffering, my suffering. That awkward habit to talk with strange words to sound smart. It’s fun, y’know?? That habit to treat people as idiots because you know they’re really are. I like to use cheap words because that’s what I’m made of. I love to learn languages. I want to learn french, russian, german and greek. I can’t deny that love inspires me like a boss. I can’t deny I like him. I’m gonna make my bed so, if I die tonight, I can rest in peace without clothes around my dead body and shoes and magazines, my bag and my laptop. It is important to leave everything in order before die. Just a detail for your family. They’re gonna burn everything, anyway, and you couldn’t do anything about it. Just another random thoughts without a happy ending (I love when the protagonist dies).