Life as a series of thunderstrikes, life as a series of palate cleansers.

The world is fine, someone like star gets afforded the principle of charity.

Tines and wire.

Let's become good enemies.

I am loath to disturb the seal formed from long periods of my mouth being closed. I fancy the little tension felt is an absolute fastening and I will never need to speak again.

Mild galvanic sensation.

Without a name there is nothing to spit on.

Maybe Frederick II's language deprivation experiment wasn't a failure and rather the conclusion was that the natural language of humanity is in fact, death.

I like the air purifier's air purifying, but it does make the room feel a little Chinese.

You're something of a gift horse.

My roommate doesn't like that I call it a pillow slip instead of a pillowcase where the former sounds much softer and more agreeable for sleeping on.

Maybe my favourite display name courtesy of the annoying habit I've picked up with this account.

Let's pool our tears together and use them to buy a way out.

In a permanent state of unsuccessfully willing something so that something can give, where something has had to give for a while now.

Somewhere along the way I forgot how to consistently crack eggs with one hand.

Every day an injury.