IamSolomon

dontstandsoclosetome:

iamsolomon:

dontstandsoclosetome:

fromsecondstory:

dontstandsoclosetome:

я хочу друга

я хочу друга

я хочу друга

я хочу друга

я хочу друга

я хочу друга

истинная друга

πριν πεθάνω

да, перед смерть.

я боюсь….

I’m sorry, but are you using google translator or something?

друзья is the proper term for friends. друга is just… wrong for this sentence. You use it when you are saying “My friend has…” not in the context you are using. As far as I recall you can’t say I want a friend this way.

It was what the dictionary gave me. My Russian is terrible. It will never get better. I know you have a strong sense of hatred/looking down upon those who do not speak it well, so please unfollow me.

Ah no of course I don’t. That sounded mean the way I put it. But, no. Your Russian will improve! No doubt about it. My Russian isn’t even so great, at least compared to kids who live there, but it’s good enough that I cry at dictionaries (they are always wrong, I have several). Russian for Dummies all the way :)

dontstandsoclosetome:

fromsecondstory:

dontstandsoclosetome:

я хочу друга

я хочу друга

я хочу друга

я хочу друга

я хочу друга

я хочу друга

истинная друга

πριν πεθάνω

да, перед смерть.

я боюсь….

I’m sorry, but are you using google translator or something?

I quit.

I'm so glad I chose Rugby.

Please get rid of every trace of me. It sickens me to think you remember me.

Irrelevant to Culture

My fingers are bleeding. Not like I’m too surprised. I don’t believe in picks. And strings are the only things I touch.

I tried to stop writing. I thought I could do it. But all of the things I’ve wanted to say have been lost somewhere inside me, lost on you. Funny thing is, when you try to quit something you need to survive, it just doesn’t work. This isn’t a pack of cigarettes that I refuse to smoke, or a bottle I don’t want to touch. This is my chemical imbalance that I am addressing. This is my chemical imbalance that I am trying to push out of myself. But without chaos there is no order, and the order I keep tends to fall back apart when I forget my planner.

Have you made any phone calls?

I’m disappointed to know that I knew someone I should not have known. I’m disappointed that I can’t unlearn the lessons I stole. That I can’t rewind the tracks or move the needle on the record back. You’ve been under construction. You and your tower of sadistic perversions. Your beacon of hope for a new world is the same one you besmirch. And I’m better off knowing you built your castle in the clouds, ladders aren’t much use to me anyway. See, I have this fear of heights, and whatever was there was not strong enough to help me overcome it. Don’t worry darling, there’s nothing you can say.

I’m still a candle. You still made me a candle.

I know your name, I never met you. Can I hold your hand sometime anyway?

Baleine-Face

Je t’aime. Like I haven’t said it enough, dear god. The only words that brush my lips and pass through my head. How much I’d give to give up.

I’m scared of this disease that’s eating away at me. This sudden desire to be lost somewhere else because I’m getting too acquainted and I hate being known and I hate feeling at home. Just a few days I’ll say every night, never placing numbers on things I know won’t happen the way I want them to anyway. I’m going to break my face tomorrow. For your sake. And I stay up at night wondering if my scars mean more than they haven’t so far, if I’ll break out in hives because I’m scared of you.

I’ve been breathing through a straw. Inhaling caffeine and nicotine and praying to god I get my hands on some Codeine.

I’m lonely because that robot is on my window sill, because at night my door opens and I forgot to shut the lights off. I’m tired because I find no more reason for anything, as much as I do for the sake of reason and purpose, I’m starting to lose it faster than I can change myself back again.

That’s alright, you haven’t missed me so far.

You are tearing me apart.

We've never met. But we've locked eyes and twined tongues with harsh criticism.

An Open Letter to Tumblr;